Howling Echoes: Memento in Memoria
by Author-Of-Sin
Summary: Waking abruptly, almost violently, from the frozen pod that has been her prison for centuries, to an irradiated world of chaos and monsters, all she remembers of her life before this moment is the voice of a man long dead—whose very name she can't recall. Thrust unprepared and bewildered from what could have been her tomb, she must discover what this new world holds for her.
1. Chapter 1

_Cold._

So, so cold.

A chill that wraps around my heart and claws its way into my soul holds me in eternal perfection. I can't feel anything, but I am conscious of the passage of time, if only just. I couldn't tell you the exact date, or even the year, I just... know I've been in this state for a really long time.

Frozen. Immobile. Stasis.

There's not much I remember, beyond that. I don't know if the time spent frozen has erased my memories, or if I ever had them to begin with.

I know very few things, but I remember a kind voice, teaching me how to look after myself on the streets. There's no face to go with the voice, or memory of a name.

I'll probably never hear it again if I've been in here as long as I think I have.

All I know is that voice is the only thing that's kept me from losing the rest of my mind, and if I do somehow get lucky enough to find it again, I'm never letting it go.

Sometimes, vague memories of masculine hands bracing mine around a pistol, or teaching me basic self-defense float to the surface, but they always disintegrate before I can really latch onto them; like trying to catch a sunbeam in my hands.

What I wouldn't give to remember his face. I'd double my sentence in this frozen hell just to remember what he smelled like.

Not that I remember any particular love for that voice, I don't think it was special in that way, but it's associated with a very fond feeling now, peace, comfort... home.

If not for that voice, I don't think I'd remember what home feels like.

I.. I'm _tired_. All this trying to remember wears me out. I guess I'll just... sleep.

* * *

"Damn it all, Skinny! When are you gonna cut to the chase and let me out of here? You know I didn't come here for you. If your dame hadn't run out on her father, we wouldn't be in this fix! How long you think until she runs out on you the same way?" Nick bangs against the thick glass of the round Overseer's window with his metal hand, a grimace baring his teeth as he glares out at Skinny Malone's pudgy, half-amused face.

Skinny watches that hand a bit more carefully than he'd admit to later, only relaxing from the nervously sneered smile once Nick gives up the ghost on the assault. He re-focuses on Nick's eyes, taking a step closer to the glass as he snarls, "You had your chance, Nicky! You could've walked away, but you just had to insist, didn't ya? Darla only did what she thought was right, and I gotta agree with 'er. She's with me now, Nicky," he insists, pointing to himself emphatically, "She don't wanna go back to her daddy. An' I can't just let you leave, Nicky. I like you, but a man's got limits, and my limit is my girl gettin' took, capiche?"

Nick tosses his hands up in an obviously exasperated gesture, turning from the window and stalking back to the desk, shaking his head. When he turns back after a moment, it's to the sight of Skinny giving him a sympathetic look. Nick huffs at the mobster, and lifts a battered pack of smokes from his breast pocket, shaking the pack to slide a cigarette over to the open side and plucking it from the hole with his metal fingers. He looks back up at Skinny as he lights the smoke with practiced movements, the glow of his eyes piercing the light of his lighter sharply. Inhale... exhale. Pressing his mouth into a thin line of disapproval, he shakes his head again. "Mark my words Skinny, that dame's more trouble than she's worth. Watch your back with her."

Skinny chuckles, a knowing smirk on his lips. "Maybe a little trouble's just what I need in a girl, Nicky. Anyway, keep your nose out of it, she's my business now."

Nick continues to give Skinny an entirely unimpressed look, and before long, Skinny scoffs and leaves, calling back, "Have fun in the tank, Nicky!"

Nick rolls his eyes at the insufferable man, settling in to wait. The comparatively soft glow of his cigarette's cherry flaring before him is a comfort, one of the few he can still enjoy—to a point—from his old... well. From Nick's life. He sighs, reaching up to fiddle with the brim of his fedora, then lower, to shake out his coat a bit, sniffing absently and leaning against the desk behind him. Another drag, as he eyes the door he's already tried to unlock a hundred times in the week he's been here. They were utterly fruitless attempts, as it turns out; the terminal outside being the only means to open the door. A click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth is the only verbal indication of his frustration, though if his stance didn't make it clear enough, his expression conveyed plenty.

He knows Ellie has to be worried sick, not to mention Darla's father. Nick's disappearance isn't entirely unusual, but he's usually back before a week's passed. He wonders if Ellie's managed to find anyone willing to look for him. "Ah, who'm I kidding? Nobody's gonna go lookin' for this bucket of bolts," he murmurs, tone self-deprecating as ever. He lets his brow fall to his open hand, fore and middle fingers extended to keep the embers of his smoke from burning his hat. A deep sigh fills the silence that follows.

* * *

"Yes! Oh, _fuck_! Mayor Hancock! Yeah, just like that, just like that!"

John watches as the woman bounces on his cock, his hands gripping her hips and tugging her down every time she rises up, thrusting just enough to hit that spot she keeps screaming for. Much as he truly appreciates the effort she's putting into it, he's getting more from the jet canister he just huffed than from the girl practically riding him through his couch.

The sheer number of people who just want to 'try ghoul' truly astounds him, and has ever since he jabbed himself with that syringe of neon-green glop that gave him the stunning 'King of the Zombie Pirates' look he now rocks. The one currently having the time of her life on his lap is no exception.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy sex anymore—shit, if anything, he enjoyed it more now than he used to, despite the er, other issues that being a ghoul comes with. But he'd also be lying if he said he enjoyed being used for what he'd become. Hell, it's not so much that he minds being used for his body, even, it's just... he can't help but feel a little... _dirty_ , after these encounters, and not in a good, deviously self-indulgent way.

Still, an occasional event like this helps maintain his reputation, so he sometimes lets a random, particularly insistent human have their fun. Besides, as long as he's high during the whole thing, does it really matter who's fuckin' him? Long as it's at least a little fun, right?

"Oh yeah! _Fuck_ yeah, Mayor; fuck this little molerat's cunt!"

... _Right_.

Seems like this one has more than just a ghoul fetish. Well, fuck it, long as the little molerat keeps her teeth off his Johnson, he'll... survive. Grudgingly.

* * *

"Oh wow, you're... an _especially_ ugly individual, aren't you? Yes you are, yes you are!" He baby talks at the photo in the case file, much to the chagrined stares of his fellow agents. The boss just rolls her eyes at him, and continues with her briefing.

"..Anyway, if anyone sees him, avoid at all costs, and report his position. This is a top priority. Him being on the move like this is... unsettling. I shouldn't need to tell you what could happen if he discovered even one of our safehouses. Don't get sloppy, or cocky. He's too dangerous for us to tangle with right now. Understood?" Desdemona peers at the agents surrounding the large desk, meeting each of their gazes—or, as much as she can, at least, with Deacon's insistence on sunglasses.

She looks to him last for confirmation, and finds him raising a hand, a slightly smug smirk on his lips the only indication of his mood. She utters a deep sigh, eyebrows askew in a skeptical expression. "Yes, Deacon?"

He lowers his hand, the smile becoming more apparent as he opens his mouth to ask, "What if he attacks first, boss? I mean, I dig the non-confrontational thing, I really do; but, much as I'd love to say otherwise, I can only run so fast. Even a synth has its limits."

He watches the sagging of her shoulders, just before her head droops down to her lifted fingers, which pinch at the bridge of her nose harshly. Maybe the synth thing was too much.

She lifts her head with a deep breath and levels a look at him. "Avoid at all costs, Deacon. Are you saying you're not capable of staying out of Kellog's way?"

He wrenches his hands up in surrender, brows lifted in mock surprise only his eyes would really give away. "Hey now, boss, no need to bring out the insults! I got this!" his defensive posture turns childish, hands forming finger guns which he promptly aims at Desdemona, tongue clicking and eye winking, despite her not being able to see that last bit.

She rolls her eyes and closes the folder in her hands, upending it and tamping it to straighten the papers within, even though they were already perfect. "Fine. Everyone knows what to do. Unless there's further business, we're done here." She pauses, looking at her agents, giving anyone the chance to speak up. When none do, she nods. "Dismissed."

Everyone scatters to their own station or particular corner of the room. Deacon saunters toward the exit, already reaching for a cigarette. Time to go check his dead drops.

* * *

Air!

Gasping, coughing, _'oh god, what is—'_

I don't get to finish that thought, as my hands and knees smack to concrete, my stomach's contents barely a second behind them. I want to do my best to keep the vomit off of me, but I can't be sure how successful I am, as the only impulse I can fathom right now is _purge._

More desperate gulping of air, between what's become dry heaving; my now aching stomach was empty about five seconds into it all. The dragging of cold air across a raggedly raw throat is small comfort, with stomach acid still searing the flesh all the way up. Tears pour down my cheeks as my body reacts to the forced purging, and I can see red from what can only be blood vessels bursting from the pressure of my retching.

It takes time—I'm really not sure how much, exactly—before I'm able to take proper, deep breaths, uninterrupted by hacking, nausea, or phlegm. I'm still shivering violently from the cold, and if I weren't sweating from the ordeal I'd just experienced, I'd swear I was still in the tube I'd just... fallen... out of.

Finally, I lift my head from the view of my vomit, and begin to take in my surroundings. Pods, or tubes, as I originally thought, surround me in neat rows to my sides and opposite me. What the hell? Are they all... do they...

I struggle to stand, my still thawing muscles reluctant to cooperate, but with some considerable effort, I manage it. I feel like I'm slogging through a swamp of skeletons, whose hands grasp and pull me down, inviting me unto death with every step I force myself to take. Finally, I make it to the tube next to mine, peering in with trepidation.

Yes, there is a person in it, and after some tinkering with the controls next to the pod, it blares the the pod's status: "Pod malfunction. Partial power loss in sector A-3 leading to termination of life support six-hundred and forty days, three hours, sixteen minutes, twelve seconds ago. Subject deceased. Recommend storage in pod until corpse disposal is possible."

I blink at the dead occupant, then stumbling a bit, I move back from her pod, only to turn and see yet another pod; its occupant shares a similarly slumped, yet still frozen appearance. I listen to the report for each pod as I move slowly around the room, giving myself time to acclimate, allowing my body to warm itself as I move. I check every pod, hoping for even one other survivor.

Not a single pod contains a live person. One man's pod listed a baby with him, but upon closer examination, the man was suspiciously shot through the head, and the baby absent. Perhaps there is hope, then; hope that I'm not the only person to survive this catastrophe. Finding a record of that child's name, maybe even the parents, that would give me all I need to start looking.

I... Christ. Am I really hinging all my hopes on a _baby?_ It's not like it could tell me what happened. No, no, that's pointless. But... maybe I can find out what the point of us all being frozen was, at least? It's better than trying to swim through the sludge gunking up my mind right now. I can't remember... even.. who am I? Shit.

I've got to find those records.


	2. Chapter 2

"Fuck, fuck, what the fuck!" I scream at the quickly approaching, utterly _massive_ cockroach that I'm doing my absolute best to beat the shit out of with a baton I found on a table along the way.

Finally, I get lucky and get a good swat in, watching it go down with a disgusting _splat_.

At least I managed not to get any on me.

Oh _shit_ , there's _more of them_.

"Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to make humongous _roaches_? What brilliant idiot made that up?!" I squawk into the ether, absolutely certain there's nobody alive in the facility I'm in, after having run across multiple skeletons.

Though, frankly, even if I hadn't been alone, I would've screamed about the roaches. Disgusting creatures, even when they were smaller. Now? Now they want to _eat me_.

" _Not happening_ , buggos." They get a couple of nips in, and by the time I'm past the damn barrage of giant goo-splashers, my startlingly blue and yellow jumpsuit is less than pristine. I still kicked their asses.

"That's right! I'm... Queen... roach-murderer." I grimace at myself, re-thinking my new title rather quickly. "Sounded better in my head," I mutter, then turn with a shrug and continue to what I _hope_ is the exit of this... wherever I am.

"Oh. Oh! _Finally_ , a console!" I scrabble over to it, nearly tripping over yet another skeleton—this one a male—in my haste. I unlock it with a frighteningly easy to guess password selection and begin to pour over the data within.

It takes a bit of time to go over it all, though I do find a spare holotape in one of the drawers, and copy the data for later, just in case. I eventually find the list of residents in this place—apparently called a _vault?—_ and scour through the names carefully. There! The man and baby... Nate and Shaun Stewart. Alright, great, now _who am I_? Fortunately for my muddled mind, the list includes the pod number, and I find my own rather quickly.

Shana... Stewart.

Wait.

 _What?_

I look back up the list, back at the man and baby, looking for any indication that there was a connection there, aside from just a name. There's no record of who the man's married to, but as I'm tapping away at the keyboard, I happen to look down at my hands.

There's a plain gold wedding band on my left ring finger.

My eyes widen as I stare at the golden evidence of my connection to _someone_ else. My shocked gaze turns back to the screen, staring at the name of the man who might be my _husband_ , at the name of the child who could be _mine._

 _Holy shit._

I sit in stunned silence for some time, in the vault that would've been my tomb at some point, no doubt. In the vault that is apparently my... my _husband's_ tomb. But wait, what happened to the kid? Er... my kid? Shit, I don't know how to do any of this, what to think, what... ah, _hell._

I sink my elbows down onto my knees, my face into my hands, fingers spearing into my apparently short locks and easing pressure onto my scalp in an attempt at calming my turbulent thoughts. None of this is ringing a bell. The names, the man's face, the fact that I apparently gave birth to a _baby_ , none of it. And none of it _feels right_.

But the evidence all points to it, doesn't it?

Ticking my jaw to one side, I lift my head and stare at the dusty surface of the desk in thought.

What if...?

What if I'm not his wife? What if I'm his _sister_? I mean, it's _possible_ , yeah? I could be married to someone else entirely. Maybe I kept my maiden name?

I curl my lip at the prospect and shake my head. No, that doesn't sound like me. I'd take on the last name of a person I loved enough to tie the knot with. I sag slightly with the thought, because even as much as it might be the truth, it still leaves me with a dead husband and a missing baby.

And absolutely no leads.

After absently staring at the holotape for a while, I yank it from its port in the console, and stuff it into one of the pockets I find on the garish jumpsuit.

"Time to blow this depressing-ass joint," I murmur, searching my surroundings for anything I want to bring with me. I spot a rather wild-looking contraption that looks something like a gun of some sort in a heftily locked down case, but I know damn well I can't pick that lock. Plus, that thing's way too big for me.

My view gravitates toward the much more reasonably sized 10mm sitting on the desk to the right of the case, and the ammo haphazardly spread out beside it. I stuff the ammo in my pockets, and carry the gun, drawing on the faint memories of my favorite voice's instructions to check my clip and turn the safety off.

Feeling at least moderately safer, I collapse the baton, stowing it with the ammo, and head toward the exit.

Dispatching the last few roaches I encounter is a much simpler and less gory chore with my new ranged weaponry, and before I have time to get lost, I arrive at a room with a massive gear-shaped door.

"The hell?"

I look around the room, noting that the only way to interface with the door seems to be the control panel next to the currently retracted catwalk. I head there, skimming over the controls with a frown. The only obvious means to turn the mechanism on is a specialized key... or something like a key? Is that... a port maybe?

I turn to look for a matching item to slot into the hole on the panel, and my foot smacks lightly against the upper arm of the skeleton at my feet. The entire forearm detaches from the rest of the bones and rolls over to me, courtesy of the round... _thing_ covering the entire arm. But that bit, creepy as it is, isn't what's important. What's important is the little thing I see just to the left of the screen, which looks like it would fit into that port perfectly.

Bingo!

I gingerly pick up the device, clamping it to my arm with a slight grimace. The screen lights up, and begins some sort of booting sequence. I peer down at the screen in surprise, wiping the dust from the interface and fiddling with the key-port-thing until it reveals itself to be a... plug of some sort, with a wire leading into the interface and everything. I plug it into the console, and the device bleeps at me, asking: "Your pip-boy has interfaced with the vault door for Vault 111! Would you like to unseal the vault?"

"Why yes, I very much would, pip-boy-thingamajig!" I answer it, before pressing the affirmative option on the screen.

I jump as a loud 'CLANG!' sounds from the direction of the vault door, the blaring of klaxon's and flashing of warning lights accompanying the cacophony of noise as my new... pip-boy, apparently, blinks up at me with: "Thank you for using Vault-Tec! You are now prepared for the future!" I ogle the announcement with a skeptical expression for a moment, distracted gaze sliding over to the vault door within seconds, trying to get a peep at what lays beyond.

A... cage? Oh. An _elevator_. I'm underground. Ah. Well, that explains the lack of windows.

I trundle around the metal railing and head over the now extended catwalk, looking all around the room beyond the door as I enter it. Not much to it, really. I mosey on over to the elevator platform, which oddly enough begins to move upwards after I step onto the middle of it. Strange. A little eerie, if I'm honest.

The ride up is a long one, but before too long, I'm being appropriately blinded by the sunlight pouring down on me from what seems to be... the morning sun. At least, if the compass on my er... pip-boy is accurate.

Blinking tears from my eyes as they slowly adjust to the light, I take my first gander at my surroundings.

I scowl in confusion at what I see, narrowing my eyes and stepping off the platform toward the edge of the hill to get a better view of the valley below— before I stop dead, stunned.

"What..." is all I manage to ask, the word barely a whisper in my shock.

Before me stretches out what can only be described as a wasteland. What buildings remain seem to be mostly rusted out shells, the pavement I can see looks cracked and unusable as a road. Everything sags, and peels, and rusts, and decays. Colors that seem like they were once bright and vivid are faded, muted. Grays are the palette the artist chose for this brave new future. Not a single person is in sight.

I sit on the top of the not-quite-sheer cliff overlooking the village below, and simply stare at what remains of the world.


	3. Chapter 3

"Rip the mini-gun right off the vertibird," he said.

"They won't know what hit 'em," he said.

Ya didn't count on a damn _wingless-dragon-sewer-monster-from-hell_ , did ya?!

"Shit, shit, shit, shit! Crap, no, fuck!" is the soundtrack of me running the hell away from that... _thing_. I turn as I try to continue running backward, and hail a few hundred bullets on it, but it's gaining too fast for me to shoot off more than thirty or so. Time to kite it around some more, and hope that Preston guy is a good enough shot to hit a moving target.

I start a wide loop around the edges of Concord's main road, staying as close to Preston's laser musket as possible. Maybe I can... Oh. Oh _yes_. I wind up the mini-gun and pepper the truck I'm about to pass with holes, hoping against hope I hit something that'll make it go _boom_.

Bingo. I get as far outta the way as I can, and turn to watch as the massive fireball engulfs the dragon-thing.

"Woooo! Yeah!" I pump my fist in the air, grinning underneath the helmet of this clunky armor... until I realize that damn thing's _still alive_ …

Shit.

Welp, time to keep running!

I make a wide turn at the end of the town... rectangle, and head back for the Museum, hoping to line up a couple of good shots for Preston's musket.

He doesn't disappoint. Not sure how much damage it actually does, but hey, at least he's _trying_ to help. That counts for a lot, in my books. I keep books, apparently. Good to know.

As I make the turn for another go, I unload into the creature as much as I can, before I'm forced to flat-out run. God, I'm getting worn out here. Maybe I can...

I toss a look to the buildings on the side of the road I'm thundering down, hoping against hope I can find... _there_! I dive in through what must be a shop's door, and barrel up the stairs as fast as I can, panting all the way. It's only a few steps and a hop to the window, and I'm looking over the street with a decent shot at the monster chasing me. I open fire on it, doing my best to keep the bucking bronco called a mini-gun aiming at the monster instead of dead air, or worse, Preston.

I manage to unload a few dozen shots into the thing before it makes a big enough hole in the side of the building to bust in. I hop out of the window, because no way in hell am I staying in the same building as that thing, even with a floor between us. I get a bit of distance, half-stumbling to the end of the road again before it busts its way out of the store, roars, then charges toward me again.

Oh, lookie, another car. Let's try this again, shall we? I stand, waiting for the fucker to close in on me, timing it as well as I can. If this doesn't work, I'm out of ideas.

Red laser beams streak across the length of the road, some managing to hit the beast, some not. Time seems to slow as I look down at the car beside me, taking aim and pulling the trigger. The wind-up feels like it takes an eternity. Finally, the first bullet leaves a barrel and pierces the car's hood with precision and grace.

Suddenly, time no longer waits, and the lead is pummeling the car's fusion engine, a fire already threatening to blow it sky-high. I glance up, and the creature's almost on me. I give up firing at the car and make a mad dive for space between the car and me.

The explosion tosses me back a bit, but I'm pretty sure I avoid most of the damage. That monster was right on top of it when it blew, though. I scramble to my feet as quickly as I can, though I can tell this ordeal's taken most of the fight out of me, and I'm winded as all hell. The dragon-thing is stumbling, its hide a charred mess, and I can see what is apparently the softer tissue of its stomach—also good to know—has been severely burned and a bit melted. It seems to steel itself and takes a step toward me, at which, I take aim for its stomach, and hold the trigger down.

It doesn't take long before it finally goes down, with barely a whimper.

I set the mini-gun down, and lean over, hands on my knees in the power armor, to catch my breath. Not the most comfortable thing in the world, but at this point, I could almost take a nap right here.

A few dozen deep breaths later, I sling the mini-gun back into my hands, and straighten, then trudge back toward the Museum of Freedom to talk with Preston. He and his group are the first actual people I've seen in this barren world that didn't try to blow my head off, so I'm not going to just walk off without them.

I did find that Codsworth robot earlier, in that place called Sanctuary Hills, but... well. I'm still not sure what to think of that encounter. I don't _feel_ like a mother. I don't even have any stretch marks! I checked! But that robot... well, he was an eye-stalk witness. There's not much I can do to refute his claims, considering the evidence I found in the vault, and on my finger.

I'll... deal with this later. Right now, I've got a group of what amounts to refugees to speak to, and hopefully help figure out what happened to me... and the rest of the world.

* * *

"Your energy's tied to this place, kid."

Sure. Great.

This is... well.

I have no idea what to think. Honestly, as helpful as these folks have been with filling me in on anything and everything I've asked about, I'm still no closer to true understanding than I was when I started.

At least I know what happened to the world, now.

Mama Murphy wants me to get her some kind of chem to supposedly fuel her 'sight', but I'm not entirely sure I want to, even if I could get ahold of this... 'jet'. Not sure how good I feel about providing drugs for little old lady addicts, even if there's a supposed reward for it.

Preston certainly seemed against the idea, and he knows her better than I do.

Marcy apparently thinks the 'sight' is a bunch of malarkey— though, she seems to think pretty much _everything_ is, so I'm not sure how much credence to lend her opinion on that. I think she's just overwhelmed by her grief.

Jun certainly seems to be, though he's taken the sullen route with his mourning.

Sturges is very focused on getting us all set up with the basic necessities, and I don't blame him. I'd really like to be able to wash this jumpsuit at some point if I'm going to have to wear it for a while.

I'm sure Codsworth would be willing to do it for me, but I'd rather it not be radioactive when I get it back. He tries, poor thing, but there's only so much you can do without all the pre-war conveniences.

I need to watch Preston. He's taken his losses hard, and he's the type that... well, without support, let's just say I'm worried for him.

Anyway, from what I understand, I'm going to need to be picking up any salvage I can carry while I'm out looking for... well... my baby.

Shaun.

It's not what I expected when I woke up, but... I'm convinced it's the truth, despite my lack of stretch marks. I might not have all those maternal instincts I probably would if I could actually _remember_ him, but that doesn't mean I want him to be alone out there, in a world as harsh as this one.

The gang apparently approves of that sentiment at least, even if they sometimes toss me worried looks when I talk about not being able to remember... well, _anything_.

Mama Murphy thinks I should head to Diamond City, wherever that is. I'm thinking that's more of a long-term goal. Eager as I am to get out there and see who else survived, I want to make a place to bring that baby... _Shaun_ , back home to.

That'll take time, but for now, I'm going to do whatever I can to help these people get this place to a livable state. I'm no builder of civilizations or anything, but with their help, hopefully, I can make this life a little easier for us all.


	4. Chapter 4

Balls.

Well, it's a long shot, but Mama Murphy mentioned something that might help me out this morning, and... well. We need supplies that salvage can't give us, even with all the busted crap we've broken down in the past couple days.

And I need my memories.

Or, as many of them as I can get for whatever I can scrounge along the way and... a hundred and forty-three caps? Thank god for 'Trashcan' Carla stopping in—if it weren't for her, I wouldn't have a clue what this cap monetary system is all about. She stayed for a whole day and taught me basics, like how not to get completely ripped off on the more common items.

I went ahead and got Mama Murphy her jet, while Carla was in town. I still haven't given it to her, and I'm not sure if I'm going to. But the option's there, if I get really desperate.

Thankfully, she didn't want any drugs for her info this time. Seems she just took pity on me and my memory issues when she told me about some place called The Memory Den. I gathered from Preston that it's in kind of a town of misfits, which, considering I don't have a clue who I am, who knows? Maybe I'm one of those. I sure as hell don't seem to fit in here, even as welcoming as... most of the gang tries to be. Marcy has yet to warm up to me even a sliver, and Jun's still too lost in his grief to see past his own face. I don't blame him.

If I could remember my husband and baby as more than just names on a list, I'd probably be right there with him.

That's why I'm willing to take this chance with the rebel town of Goodneighbor. I'll be heading out in the morning; accompanied by Codsworth, at his insistence. I won't be the one turning aside his saw blade and flamethrower, that's for damn sure.

I don't know what I'll be facing out there. Preston and Carla both tried to fill me in, told me about these giant green people called 'super mutants', and these other irradiated not-quite zombie people called 'ghouls'... and their less friendly cousins, the actual zombie 'ferals'. They told me about all the wildlife out there; yao guai and mole rats and rad stags and rad scorpions and fucking too-familiar _death claws_... it's nothing but a giant-sized horror film out there. And not even a good one; the rads took all the worst shit from the b-rated flicks, and made them reality.

And then there's the people. The Raiders and Gunners and the Railroad, settlers and smaller gangs and mafia. And that's all just in what I've learned is called the Commonwealth—what was once the great city of Boston. There's a hundred other factions in the areas surrounding the Commonwealth. This world is pure anarchy; no law, no sense, no justice except what you dole out yourself.

The Minutemen were apparently a stabilizing influence in our region, before the Quincy massacre, but now they're... well, they're _us_.

And we're not in any shape to help anyone but ourselves, just yet.

But I've spent long enough in one place, for now. I need more answers than I can get here.

"Preston!" I call out to him as I approach him just outside the building we've dubbed ' _Sturges' Garage_ ', "You want to add anything to the list?" I hold up the clipboard in my hand, my thumb pressing a pencil against it as I offer the whole kit-n-caboodle to him.

It's not quite a smile he gives me in response, but he certainly seems eager as he shoulders his laser musket and takes the list from me, eyes tracking down to the topmost page. "Absolutely. If you can talk to KL-E-O for me, that'd be great. She might have some more laser muskets in stock now, and we could use some fresh fusion cells. I know you did a clean-up patrol around the lake, but it never hurts to be prepared."

"Of course, I hear ya. I'll get what I can, this trip. Hopefully by the time I get back, I'll have more salvage for Sturges." I hook my thumb over my shoulder at the man himself, who, last I looked, was doing his best to hammer bent sheet metal into something passing for straight.

Preston nods absently, scribbling things onto the paper. "I think he'll be happy to get his hands on it. But don't put yourself out, Shana," he cautions, looking up from his now finished scribing and handing me the clipboard, "We've still got plenty to take apart here, and hopefully by the time you get back, we'll have most of the mess cleared out." He nods at me and my list. "Better check with the Longs before you go, I think Marcy wanted to add a few things."

I nod my affirmation and add a smile as I slip the pencil into the clip securely. "Sure thing. Is she still up, do you know, or should I check with her in the morning?"

He tilts his head slightly, indicating one of the makeshift shanties we've set up for temporary sleeping quarters until we can get the roofs patched up better. "Should still be up; I saw the lantern light on the way here, if you want to check."

I smile my gratitude and pat him on the shoulder as I pause before passing him. "Thanks Preston. Don't forget to get some rest tonight, yeah?"

His hat's brim wobbles his immediate answer. "Yeah, sure. You too."

I huff a little laugh and give his shoulder a squeeze before letting my hand slide from him and hang free. Time to talk to Marcy, then fall into my bed. Or bath, then bed? Hmm. Bed. Bath in the morning.

* * *

"Alright Codsworth, let's go." I wave him on, heading out of town as I pass him by the bridge that's more of a hazard than a help most of the time. I glance back with an arched brow and speak again before he has a chance to respond. "You know where we're going, right?"

He hovers after me swiftly, his tinny voice echoing in his shell as he replies, "Well, I know the general area, yes, Miss Stewart. I've not been there since it became this Goodneighbor place, but I can guide us straight and true mum, have no fear!"

I chuckle at the bot and give a thumbs-up where he can see it as I amble down the far end of the bridge, the Red Rocket looming large and in charge before us. I hadn't really given the fuel station much thought when I blasted through here last, being far more focused on making it to Concord as quickly as possible. But, now that I'm actually paying attention, it'd probably make a really good forward watch station, or a trading post. Hmm. Maybe a bar, even. I'll definitely have to take a closer look when I come back through with actual supplies in my pack.

It's right after I make this decision that I note something out of place from the last time I'd been here: there's a... is that a _dog_? With actual _fur_? I'll be damned. The dogs Preston and Carla had told me about were all irradiated, lipless beasts, unless they'd been taken on by super mutants, in which case they were massive and terrible hounds of death with razors for teeth, apparently. But this dog... hell, that's a German Shepherd.

I eye the station, thinking perhaps I'll catch sight of the dog's owner, just gone inside to scavenge or something. The grind of a loose bit of asphalt beneath my boot alerts the dog to my presence, and present owner or not, it comes trotting over to me, its body language full of friendly signals.

I tilt my head at it curiously, and wait for it to come to me, hand extended just slightly for it to sniff, if it chooses. I don't have to wait long, and soon my fingers are treated to cold, wet nose, and an extra lick to boot. I chuckle softly and try to get a look at its belly, and—oh. It's a male. Alrighty then.

"Well, aren't you friendly? Is your owner around, boy?"

A soft wuff is his response, along with an anxious little light-footed step, followed by happy panting.

I smile crookedly and slowly sweep the hand he'd accepted over his head, giving gentle scritches.

He ducks under my hand, nosing my palm and encouraging me as he continues to pant.

I snort and fluff the fur on his head and scratch behind his ears. "So what, are you just using me for my scratches now, or are you stickin' with me?"

A whining wuff is the only response I get.

I pat his head fondly and take a deep breath, facing the open road and stepping around him, letting him make up his own mind. I hear the soft clacking of nails against asphalt, and smile to myself.

"It seems the dog wishes to accompany us, Miss Stewart. Are you certain this is what you wish?" Codsworth inquires, trailing behind the dog and I both.

I toss a nod back at him over my shoulder. "I love dogs, so sure, if he wants to. I don't see why not. If he's this old, he probably has the chops to survive this place, so yeah, maybe he'll even be a help. It's nice to have a friend who doesn't judge, you know?"

"Of course, mum, I understand. You have considered the supplies you will need to keep him healthy, I assume? It is likely he hasn't eaten in some time, though he doesn't seem particularly malnourished," Codsworth observes.

I shrug, continuing down the road, tossing back my answer, "I hadn't considered it, but it shouldn't be too difficult. He can eat the same meat I do, and the medicine that works for me probably wouldn't be too far from working on him. Could always ask a doctor." I pause at that, a frown forming on my face as I reconsider. "If there's even such a thing as doctors in this wasteland, that is."

A thoughtful hum precedes Codsworth's response, "That is a good question, mum. Perhaps we could ask around in this... Goodneighbor?"

"I might. Do me a favor and let me do the talking though," I caution him, holding up a finger for a moment as I make my point, "If that place is anything like I think it is, we'll have to be careful. As long as we don't get too saucy, we should be fine, but it never hurts to be on guard."

"Wise words, Miss Stewart."

"Thank you, Codsworth. Let's hope they end up mattering. Wise words won't do much against ferals."

"True, mum. I promise I shall do my best to keep us safe on the way there," the bot gallantly swears.

I chuckle and glance back at him with a small smile. "Thanks, Codsworth."

I take a breath, adjust my backpack, and settle in for a long walk.

* * *

*BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP*

" _FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK_!"

The bridge I was trying to peacefully walk across suddenly became the most dangerous place in the Commonwealth, when I accidentally tripped off the mine I'm currently running from. Needless to say, I certainly feel the impact of the explosion's heat wave, which is immediately followed by... holy _fuck_. I turn and watch, agape, as a series of explosions rock the bridge, one after the other. Even after every mine detonates, there's cars still waiting to blow, and I don't have to wait long to see them follow suit.

Well. I'm not entirely certain who that was originally rigged for, but I somehow doubt it was for me. Rolling my neck gently, I clear my throat and start over the bridge once more, hoping anything else that might detonate has already been triggered.

Luck seems to be with me for once. It certainly wasn't with the hordes of other irradiated creatures I've run afoul of thus far. Mutated hounds, ferals, stupendously massive mosquitoes, and absolutely psychotic raiders are just a small sampling of the nasties we've encountered thus far, and we're not even in Boston proper, yet.

Then again, I also encountered some good things along the way. I got to help out a woman and her son with dispatching the chem dealers trying to rob her. The mutated hounds were actually after Carla's brahmin, and I now have a ten percent discount for life, thanks to my happy trigger finger.

The Commonwealth gives and takes in equal measure, apparently.

* * *

The junk walls and neon signs pointing toward the door to Goodneighbor are a sight far beyond mere welcome by the time I eventually reach them, three hours after I initially left Sanctuary. To know there's aid, food, and beds waiting for me just beyond those walls is a comfort I never thought I'd need so badly, as I limp to the door. I ran out of stimpaks four super mutants and five raiders ago, and I know I'm in bad shape. If Codsworth and the dog hadn't been with me, I'd be dead for sure.

As my ragtag group files into Goodneighbor, we're greeted by a man with a deeply pockmarked face, who immediately lights up a cigarette and demands my every possession for 'protection'. I was about to tell him to fuck off and shoot him myself, before he could make good on his promise of bloody accidents, when we were both interrupted by a silken voice dragging over gravel and glass shards.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, time out."

I peer in the direction of the sound, hand still on my drawn and raised 10mm, only to blink and tilt my head in curious confusion. Is that...

"Someone steps through the gate the first time, they're a guest. Lay off the extortion crap."

I glance back at the 'gate', which is definitely nothing more than a shoddy plywood door caked in blue paint. Maybe it's some kind of local tradition to exaggerate the importance of shitty doors? It turn back, and the man—whom I'm absolutely _certain_ has to be what Preston described as one of the 'regular ghouls'—is nearing the mugger-wannabe mobster-jackass in front of me, who has turned to address this... guy with a colonial cosplay fetish.

"What d'you care? She ain't one of us," the extortionist challenges, gesturing back at me off-handedly with his lit cigarette, like I'm yesterday's trash.

The zombie-founding father-behatted ghoul presses his already thin lips into an even thinner line, though he covers it with a smile, at first. "No love for your mayor, Finn?" His mien turns deadly serious suddenly, threatening, "I said let her go."

The extortionist, apparently named Finn, replies, with venom dripping from his words, "You're soft, Hancock. You keep letting outsiders walk all over us like this, one day there's gonna be a new mayor."

Mayor Hancock—as the ghoul with loud colonial flavorings is apparently known—takes a couple steps toward extortionist Finn, a smile turning the otherwise stark, jagged lines of his ruined face into something approaching friendliness, though it reeks of lies. His tone is as smooth as can be while he utters, "C'mon Finn, this is me we're talkin' about. Lemme tell ya somethin'."

The ghoul reaches behind him with one hand, resting the other on Finn's shoulder. The sun glints off polished steel just behind the mayor's back, a mere second before he slides the knife's blade under Finn's ribs once, twice. It's clean, quiet, and Finn slumps to Hancock's feet with a gurgling groan a moment later. "Now why'd ya have t'go and say that, huh?" he asks what amounts to Finn's corpse. "You're breakin' my heart over here."

The ghoul wipes the majority of the blood from the extortionist off on the man's jeans, then stands, sheathing the knife and facing me, concern somehow managing to shine from within the abyssal depths of his black eyes. "You alright, sister?"

I look him over properly, then slowly nod. "I'm... yeah, I'm fine. A bit lost, dazed and confused, but fine."

He gives me what must be a ghoul's best indication of confusion. "Well good. I think. Don't let this incident taint your view of our little community. Goodneighbor's of the people, for the people, ya feel me?"

I pause, noting a soft, sickly sweet hint of rotting flesh in the scent of the air surrounding the ghoul. I clear my throat gently and plaster on a smile, hoping to keep my stomach from rebelling. "Sure, yeah. That's... very colonial of you."

The crease between where his eyebrows once must've been deepens, a slight scowl forming on his lips. "You sure you're alright? You look a little woozy or somethin'."

I snort, glancing down at my injured leg in a bid to distract him from the green look I may or may not be sporting from the nausea. "Ran out of stimpaks a good while ago, was hoping to stock up while I was here."

It's only now that he seems to realize there's a reason beyond his murderous display and stimulating conversation that I haven't moved from my spot. "Ah shit, my bad for holdin' ya up; here," he lifts his hands, gesturing for me to wait, "stay here, I'll be back. It's the least I can do for makin' ya stand there an' bleed."

I arch a curious brow as I nod and cross my arms, keeping my weight on my good leg as I settle in to wait. I watch as he jogs over to the woman holding up the wall in the alley just past him, murmurs to her, then holds his hand out, obviously expecting her to give him something. I can't be sure from here, but it looks like she rolls her eyes at him. It's only a moment before she acquiesces to his apparent request however, and slaps something into his palm. He returns to me, an exultant expression on his features.

"Here y'are, sister, have some good ol' Goodneighbor hospitality." He opens his hand palm-up in front of me, revealing a stimpak that settles easily into the contours of his pitted hand.

I look at him in pleased surprise, only to see him grinning at me like the cat who ate the canary. I return a slightly skeptical look, then pluck the syringe from his palm, uncapping and jabbing it into my thigh without further ado. Down goes the plunger, flooding relief into my system as the drug works its magic. Pulling the needle back out, I re-cap it, and I'm about to put it in the container I've tried to keep most of my empty syringes in, when I realize he's still holding his hand out.

I blink at him vapidly for a moment. "Are... you wanting the syringe, or... caps for the stimpak?" I manage, after a few awkward seconds simply staring at him blankly.

He scoffs in good humor, dipping his head toward the syringe in my hand. "The needle, if you please. My supplier likes to salvage the medical supplies we use around here."

I pass the syringe off, nodding and tossing the best smile I can manage in. "Right. So do I. Anyway, thanks for the stimpak. Nice to know chivalry still exists in the Commonwealth."

He grins crookedly at me, flicking a finger against the brim of his tricorn. "Well I'm the colonial type, y'know."

I chuckle, offering him my own genuine grin, and I can feel the faintest blush tinging my cheeks, past any green still hanging around. "So I see. Well, since we're both here, tell me about this town of yours, oh Mayor Hancock."

* * *

"Y'know, one of these days, a pretty face is gonna come walkin' through that gate, and they're gonna blow your fuckin' head off, John." Fahrenheit's chiding voice follows him up the spiral stairs as he heads up to his office.

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as his boot's sole hits the top landing. "Bullshit, Fahr, that vaultie out there couldn't have shot me if her life depended on it."

"Oh yeah, sure," she nags back, tossing her hands in the air when he turns to lean against the door frame, watching her with a half-amused expression, "she just killed how many super mutants, raiders, and ferals on the way here? She couldn't _possibly_ shoot what's probably the first sentient ghoul she's seen! Nah, never!" She glares at him as she passes him, and he turns to watch her stalking over to her spot on the left couch and flopping down into it. "Sometimes I really wonder where your mind's at."

Leaning against the door frame once more, he shrugs carelessly, gesturing to the rafters. "Up there somewhere, usually." He grins impishly at her, hand sliding into his duster and plucking out a jet inhaler, slotting it into his mouth with practiced ease. Depress, inhale, depress, inhale. Exhale...

"You're a fucking idiot sometimes." She lights a cigarette and stares ahead at the other couch resolutely, apparently done with the conversation.

He shrugs his head this time, since his shoulder feels too heavy to lift. "Yeah well, you love me anyway."

A sigh is her only response.

"Gotta admit she was a damn pretty vaultie, though."

"Oh for fuck's sake, John. Shut up and take a mentat before you drool on yourself. And take a damn bath; I could see her turnin' green from where I was."

"..Shit." Well, there goes his buzz.


	5. Chapter 5

"I know just the man you need, sweetheart: Nick Valentine. He's a detective. Works out of Diamond City these days. If anyone can help you find your missing child, it'll be him."

"I... thanks."

I take a seat on the posh, if slightly ratty love seat by my chosen memory lounger, hand lifting to my temple as I try to order my thoughts. I'd come in here knowing it might be a gamble, knowing I may or may not find what I was looking for, but this... this is nothing like what I expected. I don't know _why_ I didn't expect it, I really should've, but I didn't.

I guess I just... didn't expect to actually remember anything.

But, as unexpected and frustrating as the memory being so easily accessible for the machine was, what really kicked my head in was what I _felt_ when I saw Nate get shot... the _pull_ that made me follow that hazmat-suited woman as she carried Shaun away. Like they really meant something to me. Like I truly was the wife and mother all the evidence says I am.

Even my _memories_ agree with the evidence, apparently.

I especially remember the _hatred_ I felt for the bald man with a ragged scar; the heartless, ruthless mercenary who shot my husband.

But why can't I access that information, myself? They're _my_ memories, right? I lift my head and turn to Irma, sparing a glance to Doctor Amari as I ask, "I don't understand how you could find a memory that I can't remember. If I have amnesia, I shouldn't be able to remember _anything_ , right?"

Irma shoots a sympathetic look my way, before nodding toward her partner, letting her field the question.

Amari leaves her console and approaches me like I'm a gun-shy puppy, shrugging gently before she answers, "There's a lock on your memories, I'm afraid. While I can access and review them, even show them to you, some traumatic event—likely the one we've just witnessed—has created a blockage in your own mind. It's possible the memories will come back to you over time, or something may trigger them to come in all at once. Possibly, even multiple things could restore whole chunks of your memory at a time to you. I couldn't say for certain."

She pauses, taking a breath before she continues, "Amnesia cases such as yours are uncommon, and taking in your circumstances, they're even more improbably rare. The truth is, it's also possible you may never regain your memories. But you could also make a full recovery. We won't know until it happens, one way or the other. I can show you memories until we're both blue in the face, but I cannot remove the lock, nor restore them to your active memory. I'm truly sorry."

I lean back against the wall, as the back of the chair's too short to support anything above my lower back, and scoff in disbelief. Looking back down for a moment, I fumble for words, lifting a hand to gesture helplessly at the good Doctor. "I... don't know what to say. Thanks for the info, Doctor. I just... give me a few minutes to think, if that's alright."

She nods amicably. "Of course. Take all the time you need. If you need someone to talk to, we'll be here."

"Thanks, Doctor." I bury my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees as she quietly walks away, leaving me in the asylum of my mind, poor solace that it is.

I take a few minutes to just... sit. I'll get up in a bit, and get to my next bit of business, but for now, I need to think. I look across at the other lounger, absently studying the man relaxing inside it as I rub circles into my temples. Oddly enough, he bears a passing resemblance to some wigged drifter that told me about the Hotel Rexford on my way into this place. I've noticed drifters seem to be the best source of information around here. The hotel sounds like a bit of a dive, but then, so does everything these days.

Anyway, I... I need a drink. The stimpak the Mayor was gracious enough to give me did most of the job on the healing I needed, but it sadly does nothing for stress. Or for getting a theory that you're a mother and wife to people you don't remember suddenly confirmed by a memory that doesn't entirely feel like it's yours. Even... even if all of this is completely true, it just doesn't feel _real_. None of it does. Not waking up, not the world as it is, not the pressure of the once velvet-upholstered couch beneath me.

Subconsciously, I realize I'm probably just reeling from the shock. It still doesn't feel genuine. And I don't know why.

What I do know is that I have a lead. This Nick Valentine, in Diamond City. A detective sounds like a damn good deal right now. Maybe he can even figure out why reality isn't hitting me like it should. Probably not, but hey, hope is a siren I just can't ignore, here. I need it, badly.

I suck in a breath, the cool air smarting on my teeth, and wave my companions on, nodding at the good Doctor and Irma. "Thanks again; I'll be back, probably."

Amari just waves as Irma smiles and bids me safe travels. Nice couple, those two. Or, if they're not, they should be. They suit each other.

The faint stench of decay, tar, piss, stale beer, and something chemical hits me full force as I step back out onto the sidewalk, making me cough slightly at the harsh combination. Not much worse than the rest of Boston now. Really, the rotting part of that smell is worse outside of Goodneighbor, with the exception of a ghoul getting close. Though, I noticed Daisy doesn't smell nearly as bad as some of the other ghouls I've met here. Maybe it's something about her age?

I decide the next step is the Rexford. Securing lodgings would be a good idea, if I'm going to be working from Goodneighbor for a while. Based on the jobs I've picked up just so far, that seems likely. Pretty much everyone needs something done around here, and even the Mayor mentioned something about a possible scouting job he wanted me to come see him about later.

"You need work, sister? Talk to Bobbi No-Nose. She's a shifty one, but she pays," provides the Neighborhood Watch ghoul looking sharp as hell in his suit and bowler, as he guards what looks like a converted subway station. There's a sign just over the hole in the wall that beams "The Third Rail" at me in bright red; the 'i' in 'Third' wrapped in equally red neon tubing. The guard gestures toward a side alley I can just barely see. "Her place is down that alley, just knock on the door around the corner."

"Thanks," I respond, offering a small smile. For being a town full of miscreants and misfits in a post-war nuclear oasis, people are surprisingly friendly here.

I gesture to the door of the place he's guarding, asking him, "The Third Rail? What's that, exactly?"

He glances at the door, tossing me a smile as he looks back at me. "That's the Mayor's bar, doll. Everyone's welcome, just don't cause trouble, or Ham'll toss ya out on yer ass. No matter how _tight_ that ass might be." He waggles what once were his eyebrows, and bites his lower lip as he finishes speaking.

I give him a look that clearly conveys my disapproval, crossing my arms and cocking my hip out as I regard him skeptically. "That right? And would you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

He snorts at me, a crooked smile showing crooked teeth. "I usually do."

I blink as he surprises a laugh out of me. "Well alright then. You're still an ass, but at least you're funny."

I smirk and move past him before he can do much about replying to that, aiming for the hotel. I can practically _feel_ the ghoul's eyes on my retreating form, but oh well, he was gonna look anyway.

* * *

"You _another_ one lookin' to hire MacCready? Sheesh. He's in the back room." The drifter points toward what seems to be the V.I.P. room of the bar.

I blink at him vapidly for a few seconds, before a quizzical expression plasters itself onto my face. "Thanks?"

The man waves me off, and I scoff, turning toward the bar, only to run nigh-face-first into a wall of well-armored ghoul.

A short conversation informs me of his name and interest, namely Edward Deegan, and he wants to hire me—doesn't _anyone_ else in this town take jobs?—for some clandestine... thing he didn't really go into. Seems his employer wants to interview me, and apparently I've already managed to get a reputation as someone who can handle a dangerous situation...?

I mean, I'm not _incapable_ of dealing with violence, obviously—and wouldn't I _love_ to know exactly how I've fallen into dealing with _that_ with such easy familiarity—but, who the hell is spreading these rumors? And _why_?

Did the ghosts of the raiders I smoked earlier come in here and warn them all off of me or something?

Christ.

Mr. Deegan retires from the establishment soon after speaking with me, leaving me free to decide my course from here. Drink, or follow up on this MacCready thing?

To quote a little girl from a commercial I'd seen literally ages ago, why not both?

I mosey on up to the bar and am promptly greeted by a Mr. Handy which is incredibly insistent that I buy beer, immediately. Even after some queries about the singer who's been crooning smokily at the room the entire time, and a prodding for some local news and info on the bar, he insists that I should imbibe first. I find myself unable to argue, and set out the six caps for a beer.

It's as though that's all that's needed to loosen his proverbial tongue. He tells me about yet another job—seriously, doesn't anyone know how to shoot things around here?—which is apparently clearing out the trash from the Goodneighbor warehouses. Sure, why not? I do ask for a bit more money, and inquire after the 'anonymous benefactor' who's fronting the caps—turns out, it's the Mayor himself. He can afford it.

I accept the job, and down the—what I'm fairly sure is actually turpentine... or possibly cat piss—'beer', then stand and head for the back room, curiosity driving me to see what's around the corner.

In the quiet between Magnolia's songs, I step through the archway into a short, squat rotund tunnel leading into the room, and I can hear the man around the corner speaking pretty damn clearly; his voice a deep rumble, with a slightly rough edge.

"Can't say I'm surprised to see you in a dump like this, MacCready."

A lighter, younger voice replies, "I was wondering how long it'd take your bloodhounds to track me down, Winlock. It's been almost three months," the voice huffs a little laugh, "don't tell me you're getting rusty." The voice looses some of its jovial lightness. "Should we take this outside?"

The rough voice—which must be Winlock—counters quickly, seeming a little rushed, "It ain't like that, MacCready, I'm just here to deliver a message."

I lean back against the wall, curious to hear the exchange unfold without my interference.

The younger voice— _MacCready_ , sounding slightly perturbed, comes back with, "'Case you forgot, I left the Gunners for good."

Winlock scoffs, answering more slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "Yeah, I heard. But you're still taking jobs in the Commonwealth. That isn't going to work for us."

MacCready's tone turns mocking, bringing to mind someone who should sound much, much younger, "I don't take orders from you... not anymore. So why don't you take your girlfriend and walk outta here while you still can."

" _What_?" interjects a new voice, the octave somewhere between the two others, and much less rough than Winlock's, "Winlock, tell me we don't have to listen to this shit."

Winlock sounds tense as he cuts in, "Listen up, MacCready. The only reason we haven't filled your body full of bullets is that we don't want a war with Goodneighbor. See, _we_ respect other people's boundaries. We know how to play the game. It's something _you_ never learned."

"Glad to've disappointed you," says MacCready, sounding smug as all hell.

Winlock chuckles darkly. "You can play the tough guy all you want. But if we hear you're still operating in Gunner territory, all bets are off. You got that?"

"You finished?" MacCready asks, tone snide.

"Yeah, we're finished. C'mon Barnes."

I watch as the two men leave, eying them quietly as they pass. I wait a few moments, before shoving off the wall and heading into the room. Its only occupant is a small man in threadbare clothes and a ratty, one sleeved trench coat, a bullet stuck in the band of his hat, and quite a few more larger caliber bullets shoved into the cartridge belts wrapped around his left thigh. A pair of binoculars hangs from his belt by a thick leather tie, and several pouches also litter his belt and clothing. He's seated in a single armchair against the far wall, looking somewhat agitated, but otherwise reasonably calm, sipping a glass of whatever's in the brown bottle on the table next to him.

I approach him and offer a smile. "Hello, I—"

He stands abruptly, nearly sloshing the liquid in his cup out in his hurry, and holds his free hand up to halt me. "Look lady, if you're preaching about Atom or looking for a friend, you got the wrong guy. If you need a hired gun... then maybe we can talk."

I tilt my head, looking him over obviously, as if I were just now considering him, and hadn't already taken his measure. A measure which comes up to my forehead, _with_ his hat, I might add. "Maybe," I supply, straightening, "why don't you tell me who those two goons were, first."

He snorts, looking up from my feet to the top of my hair, then back down to my eyes, still having to crane his neck a bit to do it. "A couple a' morons lookin' to climb the ladder of success by stepping on everyone else on the way up. Shouldn't be surprised though, that's how it goes when you run with the Gunners."

"And the Gunners would be?" I ask, adding a bit of impatience to my tone.

"One of the biggest gangs in the Commonwealth," he snips, setting the glass on the table next to his bottle, "got a rep for being crazy... you know, so tightly wound, you'd think they were a cult or something. Stuck with 'em for a while 'cause the money was good, but, I never fit in. That's why I made a clean break and started flying solo. Now what about you?" he demands, jutting his chin up and out at me. "How do I know I won't end up with a bullet in my back?"

I give him an even look, taking a breath before I respond, "You don't. That's part of the risk, right?"

He looks slightly surprised, but nods. "Can't argue with that. Alright, price is two hundred-fifty caps up-front. And there's no room for bargainin'. Whaddya say?"

I smirk, resting a hand on my hip to affect a slightly saucy posture. "Everything's negotiable. Would you take two hundred?"

He narrows his eyes at me, then sighs. "You drive a hard bargain. But you just bought yourself an extra gun. Alright, _boss_... let's get outta here."

It looks like he's about to try and fall into step by me, when he stops, and looks between my two companions, then me. "Uh..." he begins, haltingly, "You uh, usually travel with this big of an entourage, boss?"

I arch a brow at him. "Why, is there a problem with that?"

He hems and haws for a few seconds, before grimacing and settling on, "Well, I work better when I've got _room_ to work. This might get... a little crowded."

I cross my arms and regard him with yet another measuring look. "Alright, fine; how do you suggest we resolve this?"

He crosses his own arms, and nudges his elbow toward Codsworth. "You can leave the robot here with Charlie, have him help him out as payment or whatever. Bring him back with us whenever we go to your base or homestead or whatever." He shrugs, his lack of caring much at all about the situation more than evident.

"Much as I wouldn't mind the company of a fellow Mr. Handy for a while," Codsworth objects, "it may be best if I simply returned home, mum. I'm afraid I'd be stripped for parts, if I remained here for long."

I toss a skeptical look at my robot butler. "You'll be stripped for parts just as easily on the way home alone, Codsworth."

"That..." he hesitates, a simulated huff coming from his chassis after a moment, "is a very good point, Miss Stewart. Shall I go speak to Whitechapel Charlie, then?"

"No _p_ e." I answer, though the emphasis I put on the 'p' makes it sound like I'm saying 'no-puh'. "You're comin' with us. Charlie gave us a job that'll be better to do with multiple people on our side, I think. You can talk to Charlie once we come back, with the job done."

"Yes, mum," he acquiesces, sounding a bit wary of the idea, but going with it anyway.

"What's the job, exactly?" comes the soft, light—so, so young—voice I'm not quite used to yet.

I turn and slide a half-smile onto my lips as I reply, "We're cleaning out the three warehouses in Goodneighbor. From what I hear, there's quite a few of the Mayor's rivals in them, so we should be ready for one hell of a fight."

MacCready's eyes widen almost comically as he exclaims, "Holy fu- _frick_ , boss, you're goin' after the mob? You got a _death wish_?"

I smirk softly at him. "No, but I _do_ have a wish to get paid one hundred-twenty-five caps. Each. Don't you?"

He stares at me, swallowing once. "I... sh-crap. Yeah, I guess I do. Wait, Charlie's paying two-fifty?"

I dip my chin in a nod. "Ye _p_ , I'm offering to split it with you. You in, or not?"

"He-ck yes I'm in."

I grin at him. "Good."

* * *

"Why the _hell_ did I agree to this?! I blame you, boss, you _bewitched_ me!"

"Don't think so, Mac _Greedy_!"

"I heard that!"

"Good! Now shut up and shoot!"

"We're talking about this later!"

"You two gonna kiss and make up, or can we get on with this shit?" one of the mobsters we're currently shooting at interjects.

I respond by popping one between his ears.

"Guess you told him!" I can hear amusement in Mac's voice and it makes me smirk as I take aim at another goon.

I'm starting to like that voice.

I might just keep it.


	6. Chapter 6

"Bobbi, If you leave now, you get to walk out on your own two legs. I dunno about you, but that minigun looks like it could take care of a person's legs pretty quickly if that person were to be inclined to linger."

"Well, shit; you're right. I'm not one to give up, but I know when I'm outmatched." She nods toward the tunnel entrance, sparing a glance for Mel. "Let's go."

"Thank god. I don't know why I..." honestly, I stop listening, two seconds into his exasperated, yet relieved reply. My attention is reserved for the woman with the minigun, Fahrenheit... who's oddly enough just signaled me to join her.

I head up the stairs, curious what she's after—keeping my 10mm handy, for all the good it'll do against a damned minigun and half a dozen Neighborhood Watch.

"You made the right move." Not what I expected her to say, but alright.

"Bobbi was a lyin' schemer. I'd have shot her myself if I'd thought that'd solve a damn thing. Sadly, it wouldn't, so she walks."

Fahrenheit frowns slightly. "I was itchin' for a fight... but, I guess this works, too. Here, take this," she thrusts her minigun at me like it's offended her somehow, "a... token, for doin' the right thing an' all."

I blink as I accept and heft the minigun to my side; dang things weigh a ton without power armor to lift them.

"I uh... thanks?" I plaster on my best smile, in the hope she buys it.

Seems she's not in the mood, or too bored with me already to argue it. "You should go an' see Hancock—he'll be pleased by your loyalty. It's a very good idea to stay on his good side, trust me."

I nod my assurance, glancing quickly at the burn on the right side of her face, before wrenching my eyes back up to meet hers. "I believe you. I'll head over in a bit. Just need to check with my boys, first."

She eyes me sharply. "Yeah, well don't take too long; he's not a patient ghoul."

"Roger that."

The haul back to Goodneighbor from that warehouse— _alone_ , _thanks_ for that, Bobbi—is a long one, especially lugging around that damned minigun. You bet your ass I'm not selling it, though. That woman scares me a bit. She's just cocky enough that it's obvious she has the balls to back up her talk, and just serious enough to really sell it. Plus, she's close party to one of the only two political powers I've met since defrosting, so I'm not keen to piss her off.

Oddly enough, nothing bothers me on the way... probably thanks to the minigun. By the time I set the dang thing in the trunk in my room at the Rexford, I'm fucking exhausted. Apparently, my past experience with violence doesn't extend to lugging a minigun around for extended periods. Good to know.

I reflect on all of this, along with the day's events, as I flop back on the paltry excuse for a mattress, eyes closing and fingers lifting to rub my tense brow. I use the pain to ground me here, to keep me awake. The day's not finished yet, not by a long shot. Much as I could normally get away with a nap, I'm too damn tired right now to just get back up in an hour.

A pity, as I could really use the energy for what I'm about to have to deal with. I heave a sigh as I sit back up, grunting slightly with the effort when I turn resolutely to stand.

Deal with all this shit, then nap. Sounds like a plan.

Down the stairs and out, dropping another ten caps on the counter for Clair, then sliding around Fred Allen as I leave, politely declining his offer of daytripper and a hug. _Interesting_ as that would likely end up being, I've no interest in losing as much touch with reality as that man has... no matter how shitty reality might be, now. I certainly don't _blame_ him, I'm simply not quite to the giving up on actual existence point, yet.

I pass the local hawkers in the square out front, selling all flavors of drugs, food, junk and armaments; declining a sale or two along the way and making a beeline for The Third Rail.

Gotta check on my boys.

A bit of grousing from Ham precedes the slinking notes of Magnolia's latest number drifting up the stairs to me, echoing off the subway walls and giving it an almost watery quality. I pause on the first landing to listen, leaning against the far inset wall with arms crossed over my midsection, hugging myself subtly in the darkened corner as I let the tones wash over me.

There's very few truly beautiful things left in this world, but Magnolia's voice is one of 'em, so you damn well better bet I'm gonna stop and listen to her, at least for a little bit. Even her speaking voice, as she announces she's taking a break, is worth listening to. I smile as the show ends for now, and head down to the bar first, through the crowds milling about, seeking out Charlie.

"How's he workin' out, Charlie?" I let the inquiry hang in the air as I point my chin at Codsworth with a gentle nod and take my seat on the one free stool.

"I... well I..." the dapper bot uncharacteristically hesitates, one eye stalk swiveling to look back at what appears to be a very busy Codsworth, watching as he practically juggles the tending of the three meals he's preparing. Charlie's glass-cleaning subroutines appear to take a break as he devotes a second eye stalk to staring at Codsworth's handiwork. "He's quite remarkable, really," he continues, almost absently, "most of our models tend to be either completely insane or broken nowadays... to find one as competent and _happy_ with his work as he is... well, it's quite rare, mum. If he wasn't so bloody dead set on returning to this 'Sanctuary' place as soon as you're available to accompany him safely, I'd offer to keep him on."

I grimace a bit, sucking in a few molecules of air before I respond, "It was his home for over two-hundred years. Now, it's a settlement just starting to become something actually worth calling a settlement. Honestly, if he wanted to stay here after such an offer, I think it'd be good for him. I'm not sure when I'll be heading back there next, so even if he doesn't want to accept that offer, he'll be stuck here for a while." I end off with a shrug. "It's up to him."

Charlie turns one of his wayward eye stalks to my face. "If you're willing to release him, even for occasional duties here, I'd really be quite chuffed, mum. Business has never been so good—even when we first opened up, there were fewer crowds." He gestures to the completely packed room, not a single seat empty, now that I've taken up the last one at the bar.

I follow his suggestive posturing and look about, giving him an impressed nod as I turn back, about to respond, before I'm interrupted by Magnolia as she comes to stand next to me.

"He's right, you know. I've been singing here for years, and I've never seen the place this swingin'. It's a real pleasure to sing to more than an empty room, lemme tell ya. Everyone's got a taste for his cookin'; this place is startin' to get a rep as a bar and grill now." She smiles charmingly at me and accepts a can of purified water from Charlie with gentle thanks given.

I look between the two, brows lifted in surprise. "All in just a week? Is his cooking really that spectacular?"

Magnolia's immediate "Yes" is overshadowed just barely by Charlie's "Apparently", and I focus my attention on the apparently fabulous bot beside the stove with an impressed look.

"Well then. As I said, it's up to him; but I'd say if he wants to take breaks, come back with me, whatever he wants to do, he should be allowed to. His employment shouldn't become a damper on his free will." I level a serious expression at Charlie, tapping my fingers atop the bar impatiently.

"Of course, mum," he acquiesces, before eagerly asking, "Shall I speak to him about it, then? Have I your permission?"

"He's his own man, It's his permission you need; but yes, sure, talk to him." I flutter my hand toward Codsworth. "See what he says. I'm curious, myself."

"Of course, mum. Thank you." With that, Charlie turns to Codsworth, and a series of oddly harmonic sounds ensues between the two old 'bots.

After a few seconds, Codsworth turns an eye stalk toward me and halts the noise, in favor of raising his tinny voice to speak, "You truly don't mind, Miss Stewart? I don't want to inconvenience you in the slightest, but I have to say, I do rather enjoy it here. It's so nice to be truly _useful_ again. And, if you ever need me, I'll be right here to accompany you, at a moment's notice, I swear!"

I smirk at him, dipping my head in a soft nod. "Of course, Codsworth. You should be doing what you enjoy, and you'll be safe here, I think; especially with being as popular as you seem to've become."

"I... well, I suppose the locals have taken to my cooking, mum. But, I can't really blame them, considering what's usually available," he replies, ever the humble butler-bot.

I nod my understanding. "Of course, I'm _sure_ that's all it is. No, I can't imagine that it's actually your cooking that makes the difference, not at all." I snort, a lopsided grin working its way onto my lips. "You're a fantastic cook, Codsworth, don't undersell yourself. You'll do great here."

"Thank you, mum, that's kind of you to say." He seems slightly bashful at the praise, but picks up his confidence and inquires, "You will come back from time to time and see me, won't you? I wouldn't wish you to think I've chosen this establishment over serving you. My loyalty is to you _first_ , Miss Stewart," he assures me, his tone firm.

I'm touched at the old 'bot's sentiment. "Of course I'll come visit, Codsworth. But I'm more than glad you'll be safe and happy here, when I'm out there."

"Thank you, mum," he replies, sounding a bit emotional, though that clears immediately for his next words, "Now then, what may I serve you this eve? We've just got some fresh venison in that I could have ready for consumption in oh, half an hour or so? Perhaps some whipped potatoes on the side? I'm afraid we're out of butter, but salt is available as an admittedly poor substitute. It's possible we may even have some silt beans lying around someplace, as a second side."

I chuckle and turn to slip my heavy backpack off and begin digging through it. "Sounds good, Cods, but let me give you some supplies for your new clientèle." I toss random foodstuffs up on the counter as I go. "Here you are, since it sounds like your supply is limited, have some variety. Picked up the tatos yesterday," I supply, pointing to them, "so they should still be just fine."

"This is... you're a treasure mum, you really are. Thank you. I'm going to prepare a _fine_ meal for you, with all this!" he proudly announces, turning to the stove after carefully putting all the groceries away as he'd spoken; humming to himself as he selects some particular items, and sets to work, effectively dismissing me until dinner's ready.

Released from the conversation, I slide my backpack back on and order a neat whiskey from Charlie, then head over into the V.I.P. room. MacCready's in his usual chair, sipping on a glass of—what I now know is—the bourbon bottle on the table beside him. He's still hatless, since I stole said hat a week ago, much to his protestations. I'd had to shove it aside to get to the tatos earlier. His hair is still a mess.

I give him a wry smile as I sit on the couch next to his chair, offering a single word in greeting, "MacGreedy."

He slides a dirty look my way, though he can't quite keep the upward curl from forming on the corner of his mouth. "Bossy."

I snicker and lean back, cradling my drink in my hand and lifting it in offer of a toast. "To oddly successful capers, and possible new alliances."

He frowns his confusion but taps his glass against mine anyway. "What happened with Bobbi?"

I take a breath then a sip, before I answer him, the alcohol burning on the way down. "Ahh well, seems she was trying to rob Hancock. Didn't bother to tell either of us until the very end, when Fahrenheit and half the Neighborhood Watch confronted us three inside the warehouse."

Mac's whole face lights up in alarmed surprise. "Holy sh- _crap_! _Hancock_ was the target? Is she _insane_?"

I nod sharply. "Sure seems like it. Anyway, I convinced her she could walk better with her legs intact if she left right then and there. Shockingly, she listened. There wasn't a single shot fired. Fahrenheit told me Hancock himself would want to see me and... reward my loyalty, whatever that means. I'm headed there next."

MacCready grunts and pensively bites his lip, staring off into the ether for a moment. "Y'want some backup?" he offers, looking back to me. "Should be fine, you didn't do anything wrong, but still, it's Hancock; he's ruthless. Could just kill you on principle, for knowing where one of his storehouses are."

I shake my head, waving him off gently. "Nah. He might be ruthless, but I have a feeling he cares less about that, and more about the fact that someone would actually try to rob him. Watching him around town, that 'of the people, for the people' rhetoric isn't something he takes lightly. And, if I'm wrong, I'll deal with the consequences myself. That's why I had you stay behind, plausible deniability."

"I knew I liked you for a reason." He smiles and takes a long sip from his glass.

I eye him sidelong. "I thought it was because I pay you a ridiculous cut of what we earn?"

He shrugs, smile broadening. "That, too."

I snort and shake my head, chuckling at him and going for the final sip in my glass. "I'm having Codsworth make me dinner; you want me to order some for you, too?"

He nods emphatically, though his tone signals that he's trying to be cool about it. "Sure, yeah, I'll take something. Y'know, whatever."

I smirk and stand, stretching and groaning as my elbow and back pop in compliance. "Ahh alrighty. I'm gonna go see a ghoul about a brahmin, after. Seeya at dinner, Mac."

"Seeya, boss."


	7. Chapter 7

Forging into the State House this time isn't nearly as strenuous as the previous event, which had included being frisked for hidden weapons like I was a suspected terrorist or something. This time, I'm allowed to keep my weapons and to pass completely unmolested, in general. There're even a few ghouls that give me quiet nods of what looks like respect.

The hell?

Granted, I've been doing a lot of jobs lately that helped the community, but even then, I didn't figure that I'd be the type to get noticed all the way up in the oh-so-prestigious Mayor Hancock's office. Either they all have their weathered ears a lot closer to the ground than I originally suspected, or I'm utterly misinterpreting those little nods.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Fahrenheit heads off to another part of the old house when I reach the top of the stairs, giving me that same nod as she passes me and officially putting my senses on high alert. I swallow tightly and take the last half-dozen steps toward the Mayor, giving my own nod to him, rather than speak with a voice that could very well be shaking with adrenaline and nerves.

His cheery expression gives me no indication of his mood, since it seems like he's always smiling, even when he's stabbing people. Especially then. "Well, if it ain't Bobbi's little patsy! Here," he holds out a bag that jingles with what can only be caps, handing it to me, "for protecting my stash. Wise decision, turning on Bobbi like that."

I blink, though I'm _trying_ to hold back my surprise, that little tell makes it through. "So... we're okay?" I chance a breath through my nose to steady my nerves and note... a distinct lack of rot in the air. How... odd. There's tar, a bit of older alcohol, and a distinctly fresh chemical scent, but no... huh. How'd that happen? Or did I just get _that_ used to it?

His smile fades slightly, lending a more serious line to his mouth, features sincere as he nods. "We are." His expression falls further, to one of internal concern. "Lemme tell ya, this..." he flicks the brim of his hat, "classy little tricorner hat of mine is gettin' heavy. Am I turning into the man? Some kind of... _tyrant_?"

He sighs, looking thoroughly worried now, abyssal eyes downcast. "I spend all my time putting down the people I would've been proud to scheme with, just a few years ago." He turns his gaze back up to meet mine, and I suddenly realize the edges of his irises are _just_ visible against the stark blackness of his sclera. "I need to... take a walk again. Get a grip on what really matters: living free."

I allow a single brow to arch, gifting visual expression to my confused curiosity. "Are you allowed to just... leave Goodneighbor? You're the _Mayor_ , aren't you?"

A slight smirk tugs the left corner of his near-lipless mouth up. "Yeah, you got the right of it, aside from one little detail: the Mayor's still the Mayor, whether he's in 'residence' or not. I've walked outta here plenty a' times. Keeps me honest. Can't let power get to my head. That's not what being in charge of Goodneighbor's about, ya feel me?"

I lower that lifted brow, a crooked smile splaying onto my lips as I lay a hand on my gently cocked hip. "Well, if you're leaving anyway, why not go with me? I could use some backup while I'm helping make the 'Wealth outside of here somewhere that doesn't suck to live, and not having to buy double the radiation meds for once would be nice. Plus I'm sure having your own backup would be helpful, at times. Unless of course, you have other plans?"

His own crooked grin responds to mine almost immediately, as he listens to my proposal. The grin broadens to a full one as I finish and he nods. "Yeah, I like it. You might just be the right kind of trouble." His eyes sweep down my frame, then back up; nodding again, as if to himself. "Let me just have a little chat with my community first. Give them the news."

I smirk, straightening and taking a breath. "Alright. Want me to wait, or you gonna join me down at the gate once you're done?"

He looks me over again, like he'd somehow forgotten what I look like in the past eight seconds. A slightly devious smirk pulls one corner of his mouth aside, and he waves me on. "C'mon out onto the balcony with me. They might as well see who their fearless leader's shippin' out with."

I can't hide my surprise at that one, eyebrows hiking up on my forehead, eyes blowing wide, jaw just a bit slack. "I... but I..."

The space between where his brows once were pinches, though his mouth never loses its smile. "Y'nervous or somethin'? Don't be. They're gonna be lookin' at me, not you. 'Sides, you got a bit of a rep out here. Nobody's gonna blame me for leavin' with the woman who's been makin' so many good waves in the past weeks." He slowly reaches out and pats my shoulder. "You just do you, sister; they won't bat an eyelash, trust me."

I must appear to've been calmed by his assurances, because the hand that he'd patted me with makes its way to my elbow and he ever so gently curls his fingers around the joint, tilting his head toward the door with an inviting smile. I find myself following that yellowing smirk and the still soft pressure of his fingers, almost despite myself, through the door and out onto the balcony. He waits until I've anchored myself on the railing to his left before he releases me, and I realize then the gesture had been more support than the coercion I'd assumed it to be.

That realization makes me turn to him with a slightly warm, curious look of wonder that makes him smile rakishly when he sees it. The soft blush I can feel warming my cheeks only serves to make him chuckle, before he mercifully turns to his township, and calls out, "Hey! Everybody! Gather up, I got somethin' y'all need to hear!"

He scoffs softly when at first, nobody comes, muttering, "No rush, everyone just take your time..."

I snicker, but stay otherwise silent. He tosses a smirk at me but quickly returns his attention to the citizens finally gathering below.

"Look, everyone, I'm... takin' a walk. It's time for your fearless leader to get back out there, mix it up in the dirt before I forget what that feels like."

The Neighborhood Watch ghoul that had commented on my ass weeks ago yells up, "You can't leave Hancock; we need you!"

"Hey!" the Mayor barks back down, "I'm always gonna be here in spirit, my man. Goodneighbor and I," he says, a smile beaming out from his features like its own sun, "we got a connection. But, like any hot-an'-heavy relationship, sometimes ya gotta spend time apart. Let things cool off. Remind yourself who y'are. So that's why I'm leavin'. I'm still your Mayor, I'm still gonna be here when ya need me, but it's time for me to stop livin' so damned comfortable. Because we all know, no-one in power deserves to be comfortable for long!"

He stands a little straighter, hands gripping the railing so hard I can feel the rickety wood wobbling in his fervor as he rallies the crowd, "Now what's the best town in the Commonwealth? Where can someone live free, with no judgment?"

The crowd shouts, "Goodneighbor!"

Hancock joins in as they all chant, "Of the people, for the people!"

He nods firmly, smiling down at his town's populace. "And don't let nobody forget it!"

With that, he pushes away from the railing, and waves for me to follow him inside. Once the door closes, he turns to me with a slightly bashful, but proud smile. "So, y'ready to get this show on the road?"

I chuckle a bit, taking a deep breath before I nod. "Yeah. I need to grab someone else and snag some supplies from my room at the Rexford, but I'll be ready in a bit. I should probably let Mac know you didn't shoot me, while I'm at it. And eat dinner."

His eyes widen, lips finally losing the smile he's held for the past ten minutes. Cheeks must've been tired by now. " _Shoot_ you? Why the hell would I do that?"

I smirk and lean toward him a bit conspiratorially, "Your reputation as a ruthless bastard is well-known in these parts, Mayor. He's just going on what he knows. It's nothing personal, I promise. The kid's just watching out for his ass, and I don't blame him. Have you seen his ass? It's cute." I straighten and my—by now devious—smirk turns into an understanding smile as I continue, "I honestly wasn't sure what to expect when I came up here. That's why I came alone, to face whatever it was on my own. If you wanted to kill me, at least the blame wouldn't be spread to whoever happened to be with me, too. Blame blankets aren't the fun kind of blankets to have."

He stares hard at me for a moment, as we stand just by the closed door that leads to the streets, looking like he's reevaluating my entire existence. Slowly, a smile spreads across his whole face, eyes lighting up like someone tossed a match in an oil drum. "Damn. I had my suspicions, but it looks like I was right. You are a kindred spirit, after all." His smile has morphed into a bright grin, and he gives me an appreciative nod. "Lead on, sister. I think this is gonna be fun."

I snort, eying him with an incredulous half-smile as I open the door and head out. "Fun? I dunno about that. I kill a lot of assholes and do a lot of grunt work. It's dirty. Sometimes it really sucks. It's usually bloody."

He follows right on my heels, keeping up with ease as we stride out onto the cobblestones. "Sounds like my kind of work. Let's get to it, then. Who and what do you still have left to collect, anyway?"

I take a breath and press my tongue against the back of my bottom teeth, letting out a shrill whistle. The Mayor looks at me a bit cock-eyed in confusion. I just wait, keeping eye contact with a barely-there smirk. After a few long seconds, I hear the clicking of the dog's nails against the pavement, and hold my hand out. A cold nose and warm muzzle makes nearly immediate contact, and I smile as I turn, crouching down and running a hand along the dog's head. "How's my boy, huh? You been off righting all the wrongs in the world, peein' on all the corners of the Mayor's town?

The dog wuffs at me, happily panting in my face.

"Yeah? _Good_ boy."

I stand with a chuckle and smirk at said Mayor, who doesn't quite seem sure what expression to wear, after that little display. "He's who. As for what, you'll have to wait and see."

He eventually settles on amused. "I see!" he comments, a smile pulling his mouth wide as he looks down at the dog. "Y'know, I don't think I've ever seen a dog with so much hair. How the hell did he manage that?"

I shrug, heading down the alley for The Third Rail. "Dunno. He came up to me when I passed the Red Rocket outside Sanctuary Hills, and he's been with me ever since. The job with Bobbi was the first time I left him behind. Didn't want him to be a part of that whole... blame blanket, just like Mac. I don't tolerate dog-killers."

Mac'd found that out early on when I saw a super mutant trying to break the dog in half, and said mutant ended up with a brand new gaping hole in his face, courtesy of the double-barrel shotgun I'd grabbed from the floor of the mostly collapsed shop. I'd shot the fucker point-blank, in a blind rage; completely abandoning the cover I'd had in favor of protecting my dog.

It'd been worth the slug I got in the arm a moment later. Beyond worth it. That dog's saved both Mac's life and mine more times than I can count.

I kept that shotgun, too.

"I don't blame ya there. Hey Ham," he tosses an up-nod at Ham as we pass.

Ham gives me a bit of a side-eye but returns the Mayor's nod. "John. This the little lady you're finally abandonin' us for, then?"

That makes us both pause. Hancock speaks up, first. "Hey now, who said anything about abandoning you guys? I've gone out before, Ham. Ain't gotta go gettin' all snide just because I got somebody with me, this time."

Ham sends a wary glance toward me before responding, "You had someone _last_ time. Fahr was with ya, remember? I _trust_ your daughter, John. I don't know this dame from Atom," he adds, jerking his head toward me like I'm not worth lifting a hand to point at properly.

Hancock's about to speak when I decide to do what I can to diffuse the situation.

"Hello, I'm Shana Stewart, the _dame_ that just kept Bobbi No-Nose from making off with the entirety of the Mayor's stash and killing his daughter and six of the Watch in the process." I extend my hand to the ghoul bouncer for him to shake, gracing him with the most genuine smile I can produce. "Pleasure to finally meet you properly."

Ham stares at my hand like it's made of cyanide for a moment, glancing over at Hancock as if to ask what the hell he's supposed to do.

"Ya gonna be rude, Ham, or accept the lady's hand, like the gentleghoul I know you can be, somewhere under that tux?"

Ham slides his gaze back to me, looking me in the eye, then down to my hand. I can see his adam's apple bob beneath the leathery skin of his throat, just before he reaches out and takes my hand in a firm shake, but drops it quickly, like I really had poisoned him.

Hancock tsks his disapproval. "Not like that, Ham; you should know better. Like this: if you would allow me, m'lady?" He turns to me, one hand behind his back, the other extended gently, a slight bow in his stance, like an old-world gentleman asking for a dance from a lady.

There's nothing I can do to prevent the widening of my eyes in surprise, but I turn to him and place my hand in his, despite my shock at how this is all turning out.

He then proceeds to bow his head to my hand and press his lips to my knuckles.

This produces a bit of a chain reaction in events.

I blush what can only be tato red. I must've also inadvertently gasped a bit, as the ghoul holding my hand looks up, lips just barely separating from my skin to grin up at me like he's just won the lottery. I can feel the soft, barely warmed brush of his breath as he chuckles darkly at whatever he sees before him.

Probably me, being a blushing mess.

He gently lowers my hand until it drops to my side, and straightens, as I stare at him, stuck to the spot as if someone had dumped a bucket of wonderglue on me.

He gestures to Ham, whom I'd completely forgotten existed, turning to him with a smug smile. " _That_ is how to greet a lady, Ham. I thought I taught you better."

Ham's having none of it. "Cut the crap, John. Any woman who left those people in the warehouses in the state she did ain't no _lady_." He nods toward me in indication. "That one's a cold-blooded killer, and trained, if I had to put money on it. Half those goons were completely stripped of their clothes, and the whole place was picked clean, not a single thing left what wasn't nailed down. I know she's been gettin' a good rep out there lately, but _watch_ her, John, I'm tellin' ya."

I scoff, shaking my head and leaning in a bit as I give Ham my rebuttal before the Mayor can, "Tell you what, Ham. When you have multiple settlements full of people to clothe, feed, water, and otherwise provide for, you let me know if you leave a single thing behind, even _if_ it's nailed down. Every single item from that fuckhole of a job went to helping my people, so I don't want to hear about what I fucking took. I didn't steal _shit_ from you and yours, so you can cram it up your hard ass."

I don't wait for a response; instead, I turn and make for the stairs. Not giving him the chance to respond might be petty on my part, but so was his bitching. I'll probably hear it from him on the way up, or from the Mayor, if I really fucked up, anyway.

 _Fuck_ , I need a nap.

* * *

He watches her as she retreats down the stairs, the righteous fury rolling off her shoulders as obvious as the absolutely glorious way that vault suit hugs every single one of her curves.

Ham is being an ass, but the ghoul has a point, mostly. Hancock reaches out, heaving a sigh as he pats Ham on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her."

"On more than her _ass_ , John."

The Mayor waves off his old friend. "You worry too much, my man. You heard her: she's providin' for her own, just like us. I'd've stripped 'em down just as quick, if anyone needed the clothes or cloth. And you know it."

Ham's grumbling is his only response, though his expression and sigh convey his reluctant assent.

Hancock smiles at him, patting his shoulder again, his hand only now leaving the other ghoul's shoulder. "It'll all shake out just fine, you watch."

He turns and follows her belatedly down the stairs, rushing to mostly catch up to her, lagging behind just a bit to enjoy the view. Much as he likes watching her work—watching as she tries to stifle the expressive reactions on a face that just _begs_ her to show every ounce of her emotion—the view he'd had the most opportunity to indulge in for any length of time in the past weeks had been _this_.

God _damn_ but he likes watching her walk in that suit.

It's become a small torture, really; staring after her as she moved all around his town, interacting with his people, helping them; fitting right in like Goodneighbor was a glove and she was the hand that had always been meant to fit it.

Just like her curves and that vault suit, really.

Honestly, though? He'd give her everything in every one of his stashes, if it could just make that shocked blush of hers—when he'd pressed his weathered lips to her hand—show up again. It'd be worth every cap and chem.

 _Fuck_ , he's really got to get a handle on this. Or on himself, in a dark corner, preferably soon.

He observes as she weaves through the crowds and makes her way to the bar, where the 'bot he recognizes as hers is all in a tizzy before she's even seated, dragging plates over to her and setting them on a tray, piling utensils and some of the cleaner repurposed bar cloths on, before he lets her make off with it all. She says something to the 'bot that he doesn't catch from his spot, then heads off toward the V.I.P. room.

He follows, gesturing to Charlie for his usual when the 'bot spots him, pointing at the back room to indicate where it should be delivered. He doesn't check to see if Charlie understands; it's far from the first time he's given the same signal. Instead, he swiftly makes his way into the room, catching up with her properly just as she crests the end of the tunnel entrance.

She doesn't seem the least bit surprised or perturbed by his presence, so he takes that as acceptance, and falls in step for the last few paces, walking right up to the little sniper merc sitting in the only single-seater chair in the room, leaning over him and grinning broadly. "Hiya MacCready. Guess what?" He points back at the Vaultie— _Shana_ , he reminds himself; Miss Stewart, ah, very posh, yes— "I didn't shoot your boss. There," he straightens, throwing his arms wide, "No more cause for concern."

MacCready, who had leaned back sharply, as if trying to melt into the chair at John's rather close announcement, slowly relaxes, eyes shifting to Shana in mild alarm. "I uh... right. Great." MacCready tries to form some... weird fuckin' attempt at a smile; looks more like a rad doe trynna lick its own ass, from the wrong side, unable to reach.

And ain't _that_ just some fantastic imagery? Hancock shakes it from his mind, taking a few steps back and flopping back on the couch across from the tiny sniper man, grin still firmly in place. The rattle of his mentats tin from his jostling of it distracts him, and he reaches under his coat, digging into the breast pocket.

He notes the movement in his periphery, the rise and fall of her chest as she sighs, giving some signal to MacCready that Hancock doesn't get until the small sniper stands and retrieves the tray stand from behind one of the tables. Snapping it open, he rests it between his chair and the couch next to it, as if this is some old, rote habit of theirs. Had they known each other longer than the few weeks he knew of?

Shit, he really needs to get some better intel on this woman. He doesn't even know which vault she actually came from because he's seen her wearing three different suits, all with different numbers. It's like she collects the damn things.

Though, considering how fucking _well_ she fills them out, it's not that much of a surprise. She _has_ to know what those suits do for her, on a daily basis. He's caught even MacCready's eyes wandering a few times, and he can't bring himself to blame the miniature sniper one bit.

But, if the reports are true—and they usually are—she never actually uses it as anything more than a subconscious tool. She's never overt about it, and any flirting she does has more to do with her wit than her body.

He has to respect the kind of balls it takes to pull that off. Hell, it was part of the reason he'd agreed to go with her so easily. Anybody willing to make these kinds of waves is worth tagging along with willingly, rather than just getting swept up in the commotion and cast aside in her wake.

He's yet to work out her angle; what exactly she's trying to accomplish with all the turbulence she's adding to the 'Wealth's great ocean, but he'll be damned if he's not gonna try.

He pops two mentats as he looks on her settling into dinner with her little merc.

He'll figure her out, in time.


	8. Chapter 8

"So what's next, Bossy?" he asks, between the spoon-fulls of mashed—no, _whipped_ , she said Cods had insisted they were whipped, _whatever the difference is_ —potatoes, eying her with eager curiosity as he chews, cheeks packed with food like he's not sure if he's getting a next meal—mostly because he's not sure how long this thing he's got going with the boss is gonna last. It's been a _damn_ good thing, but... well, shit like this never lasts. What happened to his beloved Lucy was the last proof of that he would ever need.

Bossy swallows before she answers, tongue sliding innocently over her lips to wet them just before she speaks, "Pickman's. Then Diamond City, to finally speak to that detective everyone keeps telling me about. Then we deal with your Gunner issue. Then we go to Sanctuary for a bit, rest up, stock up, help out, then head back out."

He's already nodding along with the plan before his agreement is interrupted by the ghoul across the room.

"Whoa, whoa, hang on a sec. Diamond City? You realize my kind _can't_ go in there, right?"

Boss looks over at the withered man with what looks like confusion, forked bit of rad stag poised mid-air. "What? Why not?"

Hancock sighs heavily, expression pinched. "It's kinda the law there. No ghouls allowed. They kicked us out a good while ago."

She looks plain outraged now, allowing her meat-endowed fork to rest on her plate with a definitive _clink_. "What the fuck? Why? I thought that was just a prejudice, not a _law_! You're just _people_ , why would they kick you out? People should stick together."

Hancock tips his head at her as if in agreement. "No argument here, sister. Let's just say the prick in charge and I haven't seen eye-to-eye since that day. Either you're gonna have to disguise the shit outta me, or they won't let us in, simple as that."

He watches her lips purse into a perturbed line, a sigh escaping from her nose. "Fine. I know how we can dress you up if need be. Still disgusting that it has to be done, but I'm not leavin' you behind just because of stupid bigotry."

The Mayor's smirk doesn't sit well with MacCready. "Nice to see such a fresh face so ready to defend us rad freaks. You're a regular breath of fresh air around here, sister."

She's lifted her fork, about to shove the morsel in her mouth, when he speaks, and down goes her fork, again. "I can't be the only human around here who doesn't have idiotic prejudices."

He acquiesces to her point with a nod. "No, but you are the first one in a long time to be so vocal about it." He waggles his non-eyebrows. "I like it."

She graces him with a dirty look and pointedly continues eating, which the Mayor only grins at.

"So, you like traveling with a large party, then?" Hancock asks her, gaze swiveling toward MacCready and addressing him as he continues, "Surprised MacCready agreed to that, ain't you usually more of a one-on-one act?"

He draws in a long breath, swallowing and nodding. "Usually. Bossy here," he gestures to her with his spoon, " _insists_ , for most jobs. She did back off on bringin' Cods with us a couple weeks back, but that dog of hers always goes with, so get used to it. He's good to have around." He tosses a tiny piece of fat at the dog, to prove his point. He don't share with just _anybody_.

"So I've heard. That dog have a name, by the way? We weren't properly introduced."

Bossy shrugs, cheek pooching out just a moment as she runs her tongue along the inside of it. "Dunno. He didn't have a collar when he found me, and he hasn't responded to any of the names I've called him aside from 'Dog', so I'm guessing he either doesn't have a name, or his name is actually 'Dog'. Knowing some of the naming conventions these days amongst... _certain groups_ , it wouldn't surprise me."

Hancock cradles his jaw with the v of his hand, stroking intermittently, features pensive. "Y'know... there was an old woman came through not long ago, could... _see_ things. Dunno if she's still alive or not, but if you could find her, she'd be able to tell ya what your pooch's name is, I guarantee it."

The boss snorts, lips wearin' a smirk a fox would find sly. "You mean Mama Murphy. She's in Sanctuary, actually. And you're probably right, she'd know. She wanted jet for the next episode of her sight, but... well, I'd rather not use that just for his name, thanks."

"Nah," he denies, waving her off, "I doubt she'd need any chems for that. It's the hard stuff she needs the extra kick for."

MacCready finally loses his patience with this lack of information. "The heck are you two talking about? What's this 'sight', and why would that Murphy woman know the dog's name any more than we do?"

Bossy answers, "She's an old sooth-sayer, a fortune-teller. Usually wouldn't put much stock in those claiming to have that kind of gift, but I'm pretty sure with her, it's an actual mutation of some sort because she's uncannily accurate with her predictions. Granted, they're chem-fueled, so most tend to discount them anyway, despite their accuracy. But I've seen them proven true first-hand."

MacCready frowns. "C'mon, boss, you can't really think that. Ain't nobody's ever been able to tell the future that accurately, or more people would've been in shelters when the bombs dropped. I call bull."

She shrugs. "Think what you like. You'll meet her, eventually. Decide for yourself, then."

He nods. "I will, then."

Hancock chuckles, returning their attentions to him abruptly. "You've got one hell of a dynamic goin' on here, don'tcha?" he observes, waggling a finger between the two of them. "How long have you two known each other?"

MacCready looks to Bossy for confirmation. "Two weeks, maybe? Three?"

She shrugs. "Two and a half or so." She wobbles her free hand, other occupied with spearing a silt bean onto a bent fork tine. "Give or take a day or two. I haven't kept exact count, really."

A gentle whistle of surprise leaves the ghoul. "Well, I'll be damned. I guess there's nothing quite like a battlefield bond, is there?"

Boss looks over, pausing in her attempt to stab the next bean to frown at the Mayor slightly. "Why do you say that?"

Hancock shrugs, tossing his arms up onto the back of his sofa, affecting an utterly carefree posture. "Dunno, just looked like there was more to the story than what I was seein'. You two seem like you make a good team, it's just not often you find that kinda camaraderie, that quickly."

MacCready looks over at Bossy, who looks right back at him, as if on cue. They shrug, then go back to eating, summarily ignoring the ghoul's next snicker.

* * *

"Holy _fu_...uhh... Bossy? Is that... is that _blood_?"

I'm already staring at another of the 'paintings' in the gallery, swallowing back bile as hard as I can. The smell of rot is _everywhere_ , permeating _everything_ , and if it hadn't already been hours since breakfast, I'm pretty sure I'd be disposing of it in a corner somewhere. MacCready looks like he's not sure if he wants to be green or gray, and even Hancock is giving the entire room his most repulsed look.

"Yeah, Mac; pretty sure it is. Still want me to just scout this place, Mayor?" I look back at Hancock, both of us with shotguns at the ready. "I say we find the sick fuck that did this, and put an end to it."

"Hancock, not Mayor; we're not in my office," he corrects. "And yeah I'm findin' myself agreein' with ya there. The asswipe that shat this out don't need to be anywhere near the land of the living. Wouldn't want to give it the chance to gather more... material."

I nod at him. "I can get behind that." I look over at Mac, who actually looks a bit _worse_ than he did a moment ago. "Mac, you onboard? You can stay up here if you're not up for it since it's already cleared. Hancock and I can take care of the rest."

Despite the colors fighting for dominance on his face, he eyes me with a strong dose of desperation in those blue peepers of his. "No! No, I'm... I'll come with." I can see him suppressing a shiver. "Someone really needs to turn on the lights in here, though."

I side-eye him. "Get your eyes checked, Mac. I can see fine. No darker in here than any other building in the 'Wealth."

He stays quiet as we delve further into the more and more disturbingly disgusting depths of this... whatever the fuck this place is. Definitely ideal for being the lair of a psychopath serial killer who thinks what it does is somehow... _artistic_.

A dozen raider asshats later, we overhear the holders of an interesting conversation. Once 'Slab' decides that 'Pickman' needs to be taken down, we jump in, to... 'help'. Confusion and chaos ensues, but it's not long before everyone that isn't my little merry band is dead and bleeding; _quite_ freely, in some cases. It's more satisfying than I'll ever admit seeing that sicko fuckhead dead on the floor in a pool of his own piss, vomit, and blood.

Quickly looting what we can, we make our way to the ladder and the hatch above it, spilling out into an abandoned, trashed house moments later and gasping for fresh air; the midday sun absolutely blinding in its brilliance as it beams down at us cheerily, warming our backs.

I collapse on a metal folding chair, squinting up at the sun as I catch my breath, before taking in a large gulp of air and expelling it, lowering my view in the process to catch sight of my companions. Dog sits by Mac, who's now sulking a bit on the floor, and Hancock is propped against the far wall, shaking a canister of ultrajet.

I nod my head at it. "Y'got more'n one hit a' that left?" I manage, between steadying lungfuls of semi-clean air.

He eyes the inhaler, then me, doing that thing where he looks over my whole form, evaluating again. How many time's he gotta do that before he remembers what the hell I look like? Chems fuck his head that bad, or is he just really hard-up for a decently built woman? Sheesh.

"You even know what this is?" he finally asks, holding my gaze steady.

"Yep-uh. Ultrajet."

He tilts his head slightly, a minor smirk plucking at somewhat pursed lips. "And you've had ultrajet before?"

I shrug one shoulder, letting the opposite hand fall down to the dog's head as he trots over and flops next to me. "Dunno. Does it count if you can't remember?"

He frowns at that. "It made you black out?"

I snort. "No idea. I'm saying I don't remember. As in... anything. Before I woke up in the vault." I try to waylay my impulse to fidget by concentrating on petting Dog. "I was on ice for... I don't know how long. Cods said something like two-hundred twenty or something." I shrug again. "I wouldn't know."

"Holy... fuck. That... _shit_. That sucks a fat one. So what, did you make up your name or somethin'?"

I shake my head at him, closing my eyes for a moment and taking in one final deep breath before my breathing evens out fully. "No, there were records in the vault. I really am Shana Stewart. I had... family, in there. But the... husband, is dead, and the baby... I don't know where he is. But his name... his name's Shaun. He was taken by someone in a hazmat suit and a bald man with a scar. He carried a revolver and wore leather armor. He shot my husband between the eyes with that same revolver, right in front of me. I couldn't do anything but bang my fists on the glass and scream at them."

I chew on my lip for a few moments, then huff a sardonic laugh. "I didn't even know any of this until I made it to the Memory Den. Convinced Irma it was a good idea to see if the machine could remember what I couldn't. Turns out, it could."

Mac stays quiet, toying with a bit of rubble. He's heard this before. Hancock though... he's staring at me like I just dropped a nuke in his lap. I roll my shoulders in a shrug and look away, down to Dog, because he's something to look at that isn't the pity forming in the ghoul's eyes.

"...So that's why you need Nick. You're lookin' for your baby. For Shaun."

I steel myself and chance meeting his eyes, somewhat relieved to find none of the pity that had been there only moments ago, noting its replacement of understanding firmly in place. I nod, once, breaking eye contact with the motion and sticking my sight to the wall off to the right of his shoulder. "Yeah." I clear my throat, the word having come out a bit warbled, and try again, gaining eye contact back. "Yeah. That's... I figure, even if I never really remember him for real, I should still look. I'm his mother, for fuck's sake... even if it doesn't feel like it."

"That's why you're tryin' t'make the great wide 'Wealth a better place. You want it to be somewhere he can grow up with some safety, yeah?" Hancock guesses, though I can tell by the look on his face it's not much of a guess. He knows. He has a kid.

I nod. "Yeah. It's uh..." I bite my lip again, worrying it as I look away and down to my lap. "Even if I can't remember... even if he doesn't remember me, I still..." I huff in frustration at my inability to vocalize what I mean to say.

Finally, I look at him and just spit it out.

"I need to _try_."


	9. Chapter 9

"Now's our time, friends. Justice is comin' to Goodneighbor, you'll see!" Kent's eager voice drowns out the sound of the plastic squeaking beneath my boot, as I make my way out of Goodneighbor and toward Kendra's flat.

Honestly, I'd taken up the Silver Shroud's mantel as a favor, just to be nice to the guy, but he's giving me good targets. I mean shit, a chem dealer targeting kids with chems made in a back alley, with sub-par materials? Fuck yeah, I'll take him out. Hell, I'd have taken someone like that out without Kent's prompting, just to rid the 'Wealth of another scumbag.

Not that I'm bloodthirsty or anything. I just don't like people picking on weaker people. It's assholes like this Kendra that keep the Commonwealth from being a place I'd be willing to raise Shaun.

Reasonably, I know I can't just kill off every asshole in the 'Wealth.

But I can damn sure try.

* * *

Kendra's almost too easy to dispatch, but I'm still finding myself looking forward to the next target Kent points me at.

However, it's not Kent who gives me the next targets.

Hancock tells me of Sinjin, and his goons, the means of flushing him out. He tells me Goodneighbor would be safer with them all gone.

Naturally, I agree to off them immediately.

* * *

"You're the Shroud's little friend, aren't ya?"

"Yes."

I listen to the broadcast looping once, twice, three times, before I turn the radio off entirely. I clench my jaw, molars grinding pleasantly in the back of my mouth as I draw in a tight breath through my nostrils, sighing it out softly a moment after.

I unclench my jaw to speak, stiffly, to Hancock. "Let's go murder this bastard."

"Right behind ya, sister." We're not even out of The Memory Den, and he's already got his shotgun out.

Dog whines up at us, looking between us with what seems like worry.

I have no comfort for him.

* * *

We arrive at Milton General Hospital in a downpour; as if the sky just decided to dump on us as punishment for letting poor Kent get caught.

If only I could say we didn't deserve far worse than wet clothes.

Hancock's shivering beside me as we creep inside, and his lips are a light shade of blue. Shit. How is he _that_ cold? Granted, it's a crisp Autumn outside, but I'm as skinny as he is, and I'm not _that_ bad off.

I reach over and press two fingers against his arm, tapping twice to get his attention. He jerks in surprise, but stays blessedly quiet, only tilting his head as if to ask, _'What?'_

I sign, _'You o-k?'_

He looks at me with obvious confusion, wiggles his pointed finger at the gesture I've just made, shrugs.

I point at him, then sign 'o' and 'k'.

He waves me on and I give him my own confused look. He gestures terribly at my hands, but I get after a few seconds of awkward pointing, jabbing, and unrecognizable finger positioning that he wants me to repeat the signing. I comply.

He mouths at me, _"Am I okay?"_

I nod. I sign that he's shivering and ask if he needs help.

He looks at me like I've lost my mind.

I roll my eyes and sigh as quietly as I can. I look around and listen for any sign of enemies within ten feet or so, find none and turn to him, crooking a finger toward me. When he moves his ruined ear closer to my lips, I whisper, _"I can see you shivering and your lips are blue. Do you need help?"_

He's shaking his head before I even finish, mouthing an unnecessary, _"No,"_ when he finishes straightening.

I frown, shake my head, and check my gun. I haven't been using the silver submachine gun Kent gave me, because frankly, my guns are better. And a silenced weapon is a much better assassination weapon, in general, if I wanna be finicky about it all. I slide a worried look at Hancock, who is still shivering and blue, before I take off through the entryway.

Sneaking through the place makes the job a hell of a lot easier, and we're in front of the bastard himself before you can say Bob's your Uncle. I debate trying to stick to the character, and decide to for a few minutes until I realize some good old fashioned persuasion is really all that's needed here. I egg Sinjin on, getting him to focus on me, rather than Kent, in a gamble to keep Kent breathing for another five minutes. Lady Luck links her hand with mine and Sinjin takes the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

By the time we're done, Sinjin is on the floor in a puddle of his own making, and Kent is callin' it quits on the whole crime-fighting business. I make sure Kent gets a stimpak for his knee, but he seems more shaken than hurt, and sadly, that knee needs more than just a stimpak. Dr. Amari can help us there, hopefully. I'm not entirely certain what the extent of my first aid training is, but it's not enough that I feel confident fixing his kneecap.

Hancock, on the other hand, is still shivering. If it weren't for the fact that his shotgun hardly requires aiming, he would've been nearly useless in that fight. I bring a steel chair over for Kent and let him nurse his wound himself for a bit, while I nearly drag Hancock aside.

"Alright, spill, what'd ya take?" I keep my features carefully blank. I'm not trying to accuse or shame him, just get the information needed to treat him.

"N-nothin'. S-shit, you r-really are a v-vaultie, aren't ya?" he manages, through the shivering of his entire frame and chattering of his teeth.

I frown in moderate consternation and gesture to his person. "Why, is this a ghoul thing you've got going on right now, that you're half freezin' to death, and I'm not even chilly?"

He nods through the shakes. "Yeah. Hard t-to get n' s-stay w-warm. Need outside heat s-source, if our layers get c-compromised." He lifts a hand and plucks at his frock, indicating it. "S-soaked. Compromised."

"What can I do?"

He snorts. "Fire, or b-body heat. D-dry layers."

I nod. "Alright. We'll bunk here for the night. Can't do a fire indoors, but I can do body heat and layers. I saw some clothes in the locker room upstairs. I'll go get them. You go in there," I point him into the nearby restroom; dilapidated as it may be, it's safe. "Strip, I'll be back in a minute."

He gives his own nod and trundles into the small space while I turn off for the elevator up one floor. I heave a sigh as I hit the button, feeling more than hearing the lurching of the elevator cabin as it begins its journey skyward. If this is going to be a common occurrence over the cooler months, I need to plan and pack accordingly. There's got to be thermal blankets still around, yeah? Maybe even heat packs, if I'm lucky. Worst comes to worst, a hot water bottle would be better than a kick in the teeth.

Certainly better than having to cuddle up to and rub the warmth into a semi-necrotic being.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against ghouls, and anyone who has anything bad to say about them can take a long walk off a very tall cliff. But I'm not about to say I'm thrilled at the idea of doing this for someone whose flesh might come off in chunks, even as I'm trying to rub heat into them. Or hell, I don't even know if that's a thing. Maybe it would just peel? Or not come off at all... fuck. I really shouldn't assume.

"Is it just a one and done deal?" I muse aloud, in the silence of the locker room. "Do they rot, then stop, or are they always rotting? Given that I've smelled rot on quite a few of them at various times, I'd have to say they are, but then Hancock and Daisy and Kent somehow clean themselves up..."

I pause, staring down at the ground, then clenching my eyes shut and heaving a sigh. "How the hell do I ask about this kind of thing, without being an _utterly_ insensitive prick?"

I pace a bit, between plucking random items from lockers. "I really do genuinely want to know for the health and safety of the ghouls I need to be around on a regular basis. I don't want to do anything that may be detrimental to their health, like having no idea about the cold thing," I reason, "If I'd been able to _plan ahead_ ," I bang one of the lockers shut a bit harder than necessary as I render it empty, "he could _already_ be getting warmer, instead of waiting around, probably half naked and dripping, while I dig through these lockers for every fucking scrap of clothing I can find!"

I growl a bit of my frustration into the tepid air around me, then pause to take a deep, calming breath. "Maybe I'll just... _ask_. I mean hell, if he's gonna be embarrassed about the condition he's in, then why not try to avoid it in the future and figure out what else may need to be avoided, while we're at it? It's not the most... comfortable option in the universe, but shit, at this point, I'll take a bit of discomfort over having him go into shock on me, with no way to fucking _treat_ him at hand."

I realize, as I'm standing back in the elevator, about to depress the button to descend, that I've had nearly this entire discussion aloud since I had the convenience of solitude. I shrug at the realization. Having such a discussion, so long as I'm the only witness, doesn't seem like such a terrible way for me to come to a reasonable decision. And it's hardly the craziest thing I've witnessed in this post-war wasteland. I'm actually a bit relieved now, to have all that off my shoulders. Good to know.

I mosey on over to the bathroom after the elevator spills me out into the wide room, adjusting the bundle of clothing in my arms just enough to free my hand and knock on the doorframe of the bathroom. "Hancock, you still in here?"

"Ov-ver here." I see his hat being waved out the front of the last stall, then hung on the corner of it; he holds his now free hand out expectantly.

"Didn't find any undergarments worth bothering with, but I found a few shirts, some pants, suspenders, and a couple jackets. Dunno if any are your size, but uh... here." I approach and clear my throat. "You're gonna need two arms."

Obligingly, a second arm thrusts itself outward, and I take the last few steps to those bare dual arms and deposit my package. "There we go, delivery complete. You need anything else while you figure that out?"

One finger points out from under the pile, toward his red frock. "M-mentats. Breast p-pocket."

I shrug and head over to it, flipping the sopped panel over to reveal the reinforced and many times repaired pocket, digging in and retrieving the tin, its contents rattling as I remove it. "Sure. How many?"

There's a pause. "F-four."

I narrow my eyes at the tin, not moving to open it. "You usually take two. Why four?"

"Just—" he huffs impatiently, snapping out what sounds like a pair of slacks, shaking the dust out of them. "I n-need to c-clear m-my head. _Four,_ " he insists.

I drum my fingers on the tin, the staccato beat the mentats inside respond with a soothing retort to my disruptive rhythm. "Did you take any while I was upstairs?"

"The hell you ac-cusin' m-me of, Shana? I can handle m-my shit, goddamnit."

I turn and look straight at his face, locking eye contact as soon as he grants it. "I'm accusing you of _nothing_ , John. I'm just _asking_ if you took any because I'm _trying_ to look after you. I'd really rather you _not_ end up dead of a damned overdose on my watch—no matter what it is you think me capable of, I can assure you, it's certainly _not_ consciously allowing _that_ to take place without at least _some_ effort on my part to stop it. I'm asking because I don't want you hurt, John. I'm asking because I don't want you _dead_ , on my watch, or otherwise."

I turn and open the mentats, grab four, and palm them, then close the lid. I swivel to face him fully, again capturing eye contact as soon as he lets me, and I take a breath, looking at him expectantly. "Well?"

I can see a hint of anger still burning like embers in his eyes, but it's tempered by... something I can't really name. It looks like a few things—maybe it is multiple things, but his blackened eyes aren't giving up their secrets as easily as they usually do. He's shielding himself; though, I suppose I can understand why, even if I hate the reason a bit more than I'll admit.

I see it, the moment he gives in. It's not so much defeat, as acceptance. I can live with that.

"D-didn't take a-any. F-four's a good d-dose, but it's not g-gonna hurt the b-big, bad ghoul, I p-promise."

I release a pent-up breath and nod. "Thank you for being honest. Here." I take two steps toward him, holding out his prize, palm-up. I look at him as he takes them. "It's never going to be an accusation, John. I look out for my own. You travel with me, you're part of my pack. I protect my pack. I may step on a few toes along the way, but I _protect my pack_. It's as simple as that. If you don't like it, _I_ won't like it, but you know where the door is. I won't stop you. _I won't like it_ , but I won't stop you."

I retreat from the stall and him, giving him time to mull it over, dress and chew up his mentats, settling with my back against the wall, just to the outside of the bathroom's doorway. In the silence, I hear the light pop of his hand smacking to his open mouth, the clicking of the mentats against his teeth, which diminishes into crunching after a few seconds. The shifting of fabrics and jingling of buckles then dominates, a long, shaky sigh following after a time of silence.

"I heard y-you, y'know. Up th-there. Your little... internal deb-bate. Doubt K-kent heard ya, but I was a lot c-closer, n' there's a hole in the ceiling above me. If you wanna know ab-bout ghouls, I c-can tell ya." I hear footsteps padding over to my station by the door. He appears through the doorway and leans against the jamb, facing me. "I don't have a p-problem with you protecting your p-pack, Shana. I just d-didn't kn-now I was in it, until now."

I watch him as he talks, listening to him quietly, taking in what he's saying—both the words and the meaning behind them, conveyed in tone and expression and body language that I take the time to carefully mark and calculate. He's being honest, that much is clear.

I sigh and nod. "I didn't know I even had one until I said so, to Mac. Just seems like it's a thing, with me." I push off the wall and face him, opening my arms. "C'mon, need to warm you up. I uh... is it going to bother you or your skin if I rub it for warmth from the friction?"

He chuckles darkly. "Well, dependin' on what y-you're intendin' to r-rub there, ya might c-cause more than a little warmth, if y-you get my drift." He waggles his brows. "But nah, you're not gonna rip m-me to shreds b-by rubbin' a little life back into this corpse. Some skin might flake off, b-but it's no worse than peelin' from a s-sunburn or somethin'."

I grace him with a disapproving glare. "You're not a corpse, John. You're a ghoul. And you're a human being, in my eyes, regardless of your radiation levels." I gesture toward myself, arms still open. "C'mon then, one thermal blanket human comin' up."

He frowns, but complies, moving into the circle of my arms, standing a bit stiffly, not _quite_ touching me at any point. "The f-fuck is a thermal b-blanket?"

I wrap my hands around his arms, pulling his front flush with mine, and start to rub his arms quickly, keeping the movement up as much as possible. "It's a blanket made of... well, it looks like it's tin foil, but it's not. It reflects and captures heat beneath it, and thus, warms the person under it by redirecting and amplifying their own body heat back at them. It was used to help treat hypothermia. I'm surprised ghouls don't use them, considering."

He groans softly. "Sounds _am-mazing_. Side note: you're r-really good at this."

I shrug a bit, not letting it interrupt my heating motions. "I'm... inclined to say it's just practice, though I don't remember any practicing, so, I couldn't actually say that. I'm not really sure." I pause my rubbing and signal a circular movement. "Turn your back to me, gotta warm you as evenly as possible."

He nods hazily. "Be the l-little spoon. Got it."

I snort, waiting while he obliges in his turning. "I guess that's one way to put it, yeah."

He leans his back into me without further prompting and I slot my chin comfortably over his left shoulder, resuming my friction on his arms and torso. After a few long moments of comfortable silence, he breaks it, with a gentle, if prodding tone, "So, there a reason you've av-voided Diamond City all this time, despite gettin' everything you set out from Goodneighbor t-to do in the first place d-done already? I know MacCready's happy, and you've done r-right b-by me and mine, I won't deny it one sec-cond, but you gotta do _you_ , sister." He leans his head back for a second, nudging my shoulder with the movement, before straightening. "You gotta find Shaun."

I nod against his shoulder, not answering for a while. I realize my hands have stilled on his shoulders after a time, and resume rubbing, if a bit more slowly. I can feel the heat he's starting to produce on his own now; he doesn't actually need me much at all at the moment. "Have to go back home, get Kent settled and looked after. Doctor Amari needs to look at his knee but, considering where he lives, I doubt that'll be a problem. We'll grab Mac, get together a proper disguise for you, and we'll go."

He tries to look at me and I register a bit of surprise in his expression, close as it might be. "'Home', huh? When d-did that happen?"

I shrug and fold my arms around his ribs, just quietly standing there, being warm. "'Much as a hotel room can be home, yeah, I suppose. I can barely lock the door, I can hear every jet inhale and moan, and it smells like hell, but it's been home for goin' on a month, so I guess so."

He half-barks a laugh, a smirk pulling his lips tight on my side. "Well shit, when we get back, I'll check with Fahr if there're any places available around town. Maybe we can get you outta there and into s-somewhere that smells slightly less of excrement, yeah?"

I grin over at him and nod. "I'd like that. Thank you."

He waves me off, seemingly perfectly content to stay right where he is. "We're a pack, right? So that's what, family? F-family should look out for one another. My den of iniquity is yours, as it were."

I snicker, shaking my head. "Well thank you, just the same."

He rumbles his affirmative at me and draws in a deep breath that expands his chest, my arms slackening just enough to adjust. A soft, contemplative chuckle flows through him. "You'd make a good mother. You're very nurturing."

A snort erupts from me, and I tilt my head to look at him. "Is that so? And what exactly makes you say that, in the midst of all this?" I gesture toward the relatively small pile of two corpses in the corner, then to the larger grouping just to the other side of the room.

I can hear the grin in his voice before I see it. "That just means you're a badass nurturer. Nothin' wrong with that; just means you're an even better mother. You know how to kick ass and be gentle at the same time. It's a pretty damned attractive quality, I'd say."

I drop my arms, push him away and swat his ass as he reels forward in surprise, catching himself a moment later and turning, snickering at me. "Ooh, kinky." He opens his arms in an impish shrug to match his grin. "What? I'm just bein' honest."

I glare at him, though it's likely ruined by the smirk I can't completely hide. "Uhuh. Nice try, John, but I'm not that kind of woman."

He frowns just a smidge. "What kind is that?"

I cross my arms, cocking out a hip just so. "Loose, easy, a floozy. I did this to keep you healthy, not to give you a window to come onto me. You're fine, now, by the way." I sigh, smirk giving way to the exhaustion of the day. "Anyway, I'm gonna get started on camp. You..." I wave him off lazily. "Do whatever it is you do."

I've already turned away from him when he grabs my forearm, trying to turn me back to him. "Shana, that's not what I think. That wasn't what I..." He apparently notes I haven't turned back to him, only glancing back over my shoulder at him, then down at his hand, now capturing my wrist. Slowly, he drops it. "Fine, alright. But I'm gonna help you with the camp."

I shrug and head for Kent. Hancock follows quietly behind me.

We set up the camp with a minimal of fuss and I lay out a sleeping bag for Kent, with an extra pillow for his knee. I hand him two med-x and stand against the wall, taking first watch. Dog snuggles up next to Kent, effectively announcing his bed partner for the night. I smirk at the sight. "Night Kent, John."

"Night, Shroud."

"...Night, Shana."

I worry the belt of my hip holster as I watch in silence, occasionally glancing over to Hancock's sleeping form. After what's probably the tenth time my attention has drifted back to him, I see he's actually turned over and is looking right back at me.

My breath catches, mid-draw, like a deer caught in the headlights. A few seconds, I resume, turning to look down to somewhere near my feet. My hand clenches once, twice, before I lift it, and sign, _'sorry.'_

I hear a huffed sigh, and look up, watching as he gives me that _'what?'_ look again.

I glance at Kent, but I can tell from the slow rise and fall of his side, he's either asleep or doing a very good imitation of someone sleeping. I look back to Hancock, hesitate, letting my gaze slide to the side, before focusing on him resolutely. "I'm sorry," I repeat, softly.

Understanding falls onto his features like the amber leaves on the trees outside, trailing through the air and coming to rest on the cold ground. Slowly, he gets up, and moves to stand next to me, arms crossed over his ribs. A moment passes before he replies, "Yeah, me too. I'm not takin' back anything I said, mind, but... I didn't mean it like that. Not sayin' I'm not interested, but I don't think of you like that." He smirks, elbowing me gently. "Figured you already knew all of that; I'm not exactly subtle, I know."

I fiddle with my holster belt again, just to give my hands something to do, dispelling some nervous energy while I'm at it. I grimace and look out over Kent, him being the easier ghoul to look at right now. "I... no, I didn't know. I..." I frown. "I miss a lot of things like that. I'm very detail-oriented, but when it comes to the subtler arts of human emotion I am... a bit lost. I'm not sure if that was something I had before I was frozen, or if it came about as a result of it. I can't help but think that it's a familiar feeling, though. I'm sorry if I gave the wrong signals, or conveyed that I was interested or something. It wasn't what I intended."

I look up at him sharply, with a grimace. "Not that... ahh shit." I smack my palm to my brow, rubbing tightly before lowering it again. "I don't mean that I think you're unattractive, I just..." I shake my head. "I'm just not interested in you, in that way."

He looks me over in that evaluating way he has for a moment or two, though he restricts his view to my face and shoulders for once. At length, he speaks, "You know, I think you're wrong about that whole not getting human emotion thing. You catered to mine perfectly fine, just now, all while still makin' your position clear. I don't feel bereft of any sort of emotional signals, here. Oh, and don't worry about whatever other signals you think you gave me because you didn't. _I_ might be interested, but I never thought _you'd_ be."

I haven't taken my eyes from his face, though my expression has softened. "It's not because you're a ghoul, you know. Human, ghoul, super mutant, whatever else, I just..." I heave a steadying sigh. "I have this strange feeling, like... like my heart's already taken. Have ever since I was on ice."

Hesitating, I grimace slightly. "Look, this is gonna sound crazy, but... there was a voice I could remember when I was still frozen in that pod. It was the only thing I could remember—the only thing that kept me sane. I couldn't remember the name or face that went along with it, but I got flashes sometimes, of hands teaching me how to grip a gun, how to protect myself."

I duck my head, laying my brow in my palm gently. "Shit, the owner of that voice is most likely long dead by now, but..." I shrug. "I just feel like that voice is where I belong, somehow. I don't know why. I don't remember any sort of... romantic connection with the voice or anything, I don't think there was anything but friendship there, but... something about it makes me not even look twice at anyone else, in that way. I can't explain it. Maybe it was unrequited love or something," I add, chuckling and shaking my head, lifting it from my hand. "I don't know."

I smile, pushing off the wall and coming around to stand in front of him. "I can tell you that it has absolutely nothing to do with you." I hesitate, but still smiling, I lift my hand to rest on his cheek. "If it weren't for that voice, you'd definitely be my type, John."

His smile mirrors mine, which has something like fond regret in it. I let my hand slide down from his face, feeling the toughness of his skin, the crags and valleys along the way, finding it nowhere near as repulsive as nature would likely demand I should. He catches my hand in both of his before it falls to my side. He holds it gingerly, looking down at it like he's captured a small treasure; his right thumb strokes the back of my hand softly, the pitted pad of his thumb creating an unexpected, uneven pressure there, light though it is. "I hope you find whoever owns that voice soon, Shana. Nobody should be without the ones they love for long."

I nod, gaze flitting back up to his features, from where it had fallen to watch our hands. "I hope so, too. It's a faint hope, but hope is all I need, for now."

He smiles tightly, returning my nod, and with a quiet whisper of skin against skin, he releases my hand. He shoves off the wall, which brings him nearly face-to-face with me. He pauses, looking my features over, then smirks and shakes his head with a sigh, moving around me, his voice trailing softly behind him, "Night, Shana."

"Night, John," I reply, as I turn and deposit myself against the wall once more. I cross my arms over my ribs, one hand coming up to worry my lower lip between thumb and forefinger. He beds down, facing away from me, and doesn't turn back around.

My watch passes in silent contemplation.

I eventually discover that Kent snores.

Checking the time on my pip-boy hours later, I groan and stand properly, ambling over to John's bedding. I crouch next to him, then reach over and shake his shoulder gently.

He starts awake, knife out and staring at me with wide eyes.

I hold my hands up placatingly. "Watch," is all I offer, in explanation.

He blinks a few times, shaking himself sharply, and nods. "Yeah... right." He seems to realize, just then, that his knife is out and aimed at me. He put it down immediately, looking at me sheepishly. "Sorry."

I smile, dipping my head gently. "It's fine. You good?"

He hesitates for a second, but nods. "Yeah, I'm good. Bad dream." He sighs and drags his hand down his face, rubbing his eyes.

"Need someone to talk to?" I offer, gently.

He lets his hand drop and shakes his head. "Nah, it's an old dream. Talkin' about it ain't gonna help it, now." He starts to get up. "That ship's long sailed, sister."

I stand, adjusting my shotgun in its holster as I do. "Alright. I'm here if you ever want to talk, about anything, though. And uh... technically, we didn't do much of the ghoul discussion earlier, so, I'll take you up on that, at some point soon."

He snorts, responding blearily, "Joy of joys. Just let me know."

I nod, patting him on the arm as I head for my sleeping bag. "Thanks. Night."

He slides his own shotgun's holster on and steps into his boots. "Night, Shana." I hear a sniff behind me, as I turn, then the scuffle of him getting ready for his watch.

I strip down to my Vault 88 suit and slide under the top flap, zipping it halfway and dragging my pillow under my head. I hear Kent's snoring even out into heavy breaths somewhere near my feet, and John shaking, then huffing an inhaler, likely jet. It's the lullaby that pulls me under, and swings my cradle to the rhythm of sleep.

The next thing I hear is that cherished voice I remember, speaking to me in my dreams and lulling me further into the realm of sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

It's after dark when we finally arrive in Diamond City; Mac, Dog and John trailing behind me quietly.

John's decked out in an assault gas mask and my Silver Shroud coat—It has gloves, boots, the whole nine yards—I figure it's good enough to cover any skin that'd give him away to the guards.

His instructions lead us to the back alley on the left out of the gate, neon signs shining out in the darkness hearkening back to one of Mama Murphy's prophetic visions.

" _...But you find it. You find that heart that's gonna lead you to your boy. Oh, it's... it's bright. So bright against the dark alleys it walks. You're looking for a man. He can help you, but he ain't gonna be the man you expect. He's somewhere... deep... and dark. Surrounded by folks with nothin' but cruel intentions."_

I step into the tiny corridor that leads to a single door, glancing back at my boys and nodding toward the door in question. "You guys wanna come in, or you stickin' around out here?"

Mac shrugs, tugging a thumb over his shoulder. "I'mma go get some noodles. I've been missin' Takahashi's noodles somethin' fierce."

I nod, offering a smile. "Alright, have fun." I look to John now, my hand on the door, sliding down to the handle.

He shrugs. "I'll come with. Nick and I go way back—I'll be safe to take this getup off while I'm in there and _breathe_ for a bit."

I give him a sympathetic grimace. "Sorry. But alright, let's go, then."

I push the handle down, pressing the door open to the sight of a brunette female facing away from us. I peer around the room, but can't see any occupants besides us and I'm about to ask after Mr. Valentine when the woman speaks up, though I can tell she's not talking to me.

"I told you your luck wouldn't last forever... His ties?" The woman sighs wistfully, almost mournfully. "Oh, Nick." There's a long pause, and I wonder at the woman not noticing our presence, before she continues, obviously rummaging through a box of belongings. "The bills?" She scoffs. "Forget about the bills. The photographs?" A chuckle. "He never did photograph well."

Finally, I decide to make our presence as unavoidable as possible, and step around the desk, approaching her. "Miss? Is... something wrong?"

She huffs a tired-sounding laugh and glances at me. "Another stray coming in from the rain." She sighs again, turning to me fully. "'Fraid you're too late. Office is closed."

"I know you must be busy, but I won't take much of your time, Miss. This is very important." A combination of compassion and confidence has me bluffing my way through that one easily enough.

She hunches even further into herself in defeat. "You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just the detective, he's... gone missing."

I blink, holding a hand up in a gentle request for a pause. "Do you have any idea where he might've gone?"

She nods softly, elaborating, "He disappeared working a case. Skinny Malone's group had kidnapped a young woman, and he tracked them down to their hideout in Park Street Station. There's an old Vault down there they use as a base. I _told_ Nick he was walking into a trap, but... he just smiled and walked out the door, like he always does."

"I'll find him," I assure her. "You have my word."

" _Thank_ you." She clasps her hands together in front of her, emphasizing her gratitude. "Nick should be easy to spot. He's always wearing that old hat and trench coat getup. Please hurry," she begs me.

"What's your name, in case the detective asks me who sent me?" I gently prod.

"Oh, Ellie, Ellie Perkins. I hope you get to him soon, he's been gone over a month now."

My brows lift in surprise. "You... well, I don't mean to be insensitive Miss, but are you sure he's even alive, at this point?"

She's nodding before I even finish. "Oh yeah. He and Skinny go way back; Skinny owes him big. He wouldn't kill 'im. He's probably just keepin' him there out of pride or stupidity. Maybe as a lesson, or to impress someone. Skinny's not the sharpest pin in the pincushion."

"I see. Well, thank you for the information, I'll get right on it."

She smiles worriedly at me, nodding once. "Thank you."

I turn, taking a deep breath, giving John a concerned look as I pass him. Once outside, I wait until the door swings closed to softly speak, "What do you know about this Skinny character?"

I hear a snort from behind the mask. "He's the opposite of skinny, for one. But, as for the important details... you know the group you cleared out of the warehouses at home?"

I nod. "Yeah, Mac said they were the mob. Most of them spoke Russian, or had an accent, I noticed. So what, is Skinny with them?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, Skinny probably owes you a favor after that, actually. He and his cronies are the modern-day remnants of the Italian mob, here in the good ol' Commonwealth. Got plenty a' ways you can handle it, but I'd be just fine if you wiped the lot of 'em out. They've caused as much nasty business as the Russians did."

Again, I nod. "Alright. Let's not waste any time getting to him, then. You comin' along?"

"Hell yeah. Skinny's not the only one that owes Nicky a few favors, n' clearin' that group outta the way helps everyone. I'm down."

"Sounds good." I wave him on. "Let's see if Mac wants to come. The last time I took him to a Vault... well, he's not a fan anymore."

John snorts. "Of Vaults, or you?"

I send a short glare back at him. "Vaults. I'm his Bossy. I pay him. He'll never get sick of me." I stick my tongue out at him, then straighten up and storm over to the noodle stand like a woman on a mission.

What? It keeps the guards outta the way.

I smack the counter as I sit on the stool next to my sniper. "Mac!"

He jumps, hands clamping tightly to the edge of the counter, the vein in his forehead popping up and throbbing. "Shi-cra-fu- _what-why you gotta_ _ **do**_ _that_?!"

I smirk and point to his dinner. "Eat your noodles. You comin' to rescue Nick with us? He's in a Vault."

"No." He shakes his head firmly. " _No_ , heck no, go by yourself. You can't pay me enough. Nuh-uh." He resolutely plucks his chopsticks up and spears the ends of them beneath a mound of noodles, planting himself firmly in place.

"Okay MacGreedy, be back soonish if the mob doesn't capture us, too." I slap him on the back and slide off my stool, plucking a noodle from the chopsticks resting in his hand, plopping it into my mouth and shoving his hat onto his head to shut him up about it. He still grouses, but I summarily ignore him and head for the gates, followed by my ghoul and dog.

* * *

The dingy blue double doors to the subway station greet us on arrival, squeakily making way for us as we push through. I figure there's little hope for stealth after that, so I grab the shotgun and holster the 10mm.

John's about to steamroll ahead, eager now that he's back in his usual colonial getup, but I hold my arm out in front of him and press a finger to my lips, shushing him. What sounds like a couple of Skinny's boys are downstairs, mid-conversation. After the bickering pair fall silent, I wave Hancock on, and start down the stairs myself, gun up and ready to go.

A good little bit of a shoot-out—or three—later, we end up standing on a paltry platform in front of the Vault door. I plug my pip-boy in, send the opening signal, and we're in. The grinding of the door opening greets us with rusty gusto, allowing our passage after a few moments to bemoan its antiquity. We wait for the ramp to extend, then it's the shooting gallery, all over again.

At least, until we come to the hole.

"Shit. Did you see another way around?"

John shakes his head. "Nah. Just gonna have to do it carefully. Go down one, then the next, one at a time. Won't take but a few minutes."

I sigh, shaking my head. "Yeah, fine. Who the hell decided this was a good idea?"

He shrugs. "Well, you heard 'em; they didn't actually plan to _use_ this Vault, so, makes sense there'd be some wacko design choices."

I scoff. "Yeah, sure. This isn't wacko, this is just stupid." I shake my head again, lowering my pack to the next platform. "Whatever, let's get it over with."

I slip to the edge and tumble over, hands snagging the slightly raised edge tightly. I turn, then swinging back and forth, I gain enough momentum to be sure I'll land properly, and let go. I recover from the slight fall and turn to watch John get down in his own way, ensuring I'm there to help if he needs it. He lands well, then turns to the next edge, going down first this time. I wait on him, then lower my pack, then myself a bit more carefully, seeing as I lack the raised edge this time. He's there to help me land properly, a pair of steadying hands on my waist.

I offer him a smile in gratitude. "Thanks." I nod to the only way out of the room, breaking gently from his grasp in the process. "Let's get to it."

The hallway the exit opens out into ends abruptly with yet another hydraulic hatch. Followed by another. And another. Fuck's sake, is there an end to the monotony? Finally, the last hatch empties us out into a cavernous room, the central attraction of which seems to be a man standing in front of a round window, talking to someone. I'm too far away to hear anything specific yet, so I turn to John and tap his arm, then point at the man, cupping my ear with the other hand.

Hancock leans in and murmurs what he hears as I watch for dangers. He can't hear Valentine on the other side of the glass, but he can hear the man clear as a bell. I gesture for us to move along, after sighting no other threats in the vicinity, and venture to sneak up by the man, his voice becoming audible to me as we near. I switch out to my silenced 10mm, seeing as we apparently haven't managed to raise the alarm in here just yet and I'd like to keep it that way.

Just as the man turns, my slow, careful aim pays off with a quiet pair of bullets in his cranium. He slumps backward to the floor, the only sound from him being that of his gray matter and bone splattering against the wall behind him. I take another, studied look at the darkened lower levels of the large area below us, but when I don't catch any movement, I head for the window.

"Hey you!" Calls the man from the other side, shrouded in darkness, "I dunno who you are, but we got about three minutes before they realize muscles for brains ain't comin' back! Get this door open!"

I stare, dumbstruck, as something I never anticipated actually happening clicks into place, like a piece of the puzzle I've been missing. All I can see of the man beyond the glass is the silhouette of a fedora and trench, the coat tattered and fraying on the edges. As I look up, seeking out his actual features, the darkness prevents my catching sight of anything but his eyes, which... _glow_ , a bright amber.

But that _voice_...

I reach a hand out, laying it against the glass as the moment I have literally _dreamed of_ for... I don't even know how long, forms in actual reality, right before my eyes.

"Shana," comes John's gentle, worried prompting. "Y'alright? Ya look a little... lost, there."

I shake my head slowly, swallowing around the tightness in my throat. "Not lost, John. _Found_." My voice sounds small, far away, even to my own ears, but I've no doubt he hears me.

Hancock makes a confused, curious hum, but before he can ask, I've torn myself from the glass, and rushed to the man's corpse, rummaging through his clothing for some clue to the console's password, because there's no way in hell I'd have the presence of mind to actually guess it, right now. "Bingo," I mutter, as my fingers land on a piece of paper that stupidly enough reads, "Overseer Door Password", followed by a series of letters and numbers.

I stand and nearly stumble in my haste to get to the console, to the soundtrack of _that voice_ reassuring me that if I get it wrong, the console will reset, given time. He sounds slightly desperate but hopeful; I don't blame him because I'm feeling almost exactly the same way.

My efforts are quietly interrupted by John's concerned voice, murmuring near my ear. "What's goin' on, Shana? You're actin' a little... strange."

I half wave him off, having to re-type the password in my distraction. "It's _him_ , John. _He's_ the _voice_." I look back at him, a mixture of dread and excitement likely dancing in my eyes and warring for dominance on my features. "It's _him._ "

The look John gives me is beyond incredulous. "The voice you heard when you were on ice is _Nicky_? Ah, _hell_ , Shana... that's..." He looks to be struggling with something as he searches for words. He finally settles on, "I don't even know what to say to that."

I frown, scrutinizing his almost... _disappointed_ expression. "Well, you may not know what to say, but your face certainly doesn't have that issue." I turn back to the console, finally entering the proper password, and practically smashing the enter button to bits in my enthusiasm. "We can deal with everything _later_ , John. Right now, we need to get the hell out of this Vault, yeah?"

"...Yeah. I guess." His is a lackluster response, but I'll take it.

I take a steadying breath. "Deal with the life-altering events after, escape now," I reiterate, mostly for my own benefit. I nod and use the console's door control menu to unlock said door. A final glance at Hancock tells me he's worried, pity lining the edges of his concern like the silver on a cloud. I frown slightly at the sight but do my best to clear my mind of everything, turning to face the door as it swishes aside, leaving the way open for us.

I step into the room quickly, gun still drawn, but lowered. I look Valentine over as best I can in the darkness of the room, an effort he aids by lighting a timely cigarette.

"Gotta love the irony of the reverse damsel-in-distress scenario. Question is, why did our heroine risk life and limb for an old private eye?" He watches me through the glow of his lighter, golden eyes still tracking me after he goes silent—taking my measure, but not like John does. There's no real evaluation in that gaze, but there's plenty of curiosity and study; it's like he's taking a picture in his mind, for later mulling over.

I mentally shake myself from my observations and drum up an answer that'll satisfy, for now. "I need you to find someone, but it's... it's complicated. I don't exactly know where they could be, or... how long they've been gone."

"Well, I've done jobs with less. Somehow, 'nice and simple' never makes it onto the menu in my world. I've been cooped up in here for _weeks_. Turns out, the missing daughter I came here to find wasn't kidnapped. She's Skinny Malone's new flame, and she's got a _mean_ streak." He visibly shakes himself, then smiles at me. "Anyway, you got troubles, and I'm glad to help. But now ain't the time. Let's blow this joint, _then_ we'll talk."

He flicks his somehow already spent cigarette butt off to the side, then stops, just short of starting to move past me, for the door. "You travelin' with my rescuer, John? I didn't expect to see you outside of Goodneighbor so soon."

I tune out Hancock's response, in favor of taking a detailed inventory of both this detective and the room he's spent the past month or so in. The man is... well. Not what I expected. Then again, Mama Murphy did warn as much. So, that's fair, I suppose.

It's still a shock. It's one thing to be a mechanical man, a robot, a... well, I suppose he's what I keep hearing people call a _synth_ , but this is just... peculiar. Pieces of what was obviously once the 'skin' over his jawline and the sides of his neck are ripped away, revealing gears, bars, wires, and servos beneath; raw and ragged and on display. Even if he somehow couldn't _feel_ the damage there, isn't there a risk that more damage could occur, now that his... innards, as it were, are exposed? Does he have no way to replace any of it, or to repair it?

As I ponder this query, he retrieves a flathead screwdriver from his coat pocket and slots it into a screw at his wrist, making minute adjustments. At the conclusion of his tweaking, he flexes the exposed, skeletal metal hand—making a fist and opening, his forefinger lagging behind and sticking in one position, stubbornly refusing to move until he repeats the motion several times over. When it finally releases, he rolls his wrist, and puts the screwdriver away; casually conversing with John, all the while.

The room itself is spartan, really only containing a few holotapes and a console that are of any interest, and even then, it's only as a passing amusement. There's also a bobblehead that I quietly collect, stuffing it into my pack like the hoarder I've become. I do note a veritable pile of cigarette butts near where Mr. Valentine had flicked his earlier—the only real indication of his having spent any time in here, at all.

I look out the round window and finally deign to tune back into the conversation. John's speaking, though the subject isn't clear until he finishes. "...a favor and find this one, Nicky." He shakes his head, watching me with sadness in his eyes. "She's got enough against her right now; she could really use a win."

Nick turns his attention to me, eyes shining brightly from beneath the brim of his worn fedora. "I'll do what I can. Let's get out of here, so I can actually get going on the case."

I nod and gesture toward the open door with my 10mm. "Sorry to say, but we didn't get much choice in leaving a path of destruction on the way in, so we're probably not gonna get much of one on the way out, either." I take a deep breath, heading out the door and leading the charge.

* * *

" _More_ stairs? Who built this place, a fitness instructor?"

It forces a tight chuckle out of me, despite the tension running through me. I'm not sure _what_ to think about this synth detective with the voice of my memories' dreams. It doesn't seem like he's had a single inkling of recognition for me. Am I just howling at the wrong moon, here? Sure, he's got the voice, there's no question and no mistaking it. But I distinctly remember two _human_ hands in those admittedly vague and fuzzy memories, not one pale, semi-human hand and one with bare metal, rusty joints and wire ligaments.

How do I even begin to fit the memories together with the reality I've been faced with? Is there even a way to reconcile the two?

Am I doomed to simply wander, searching for another answer?

I look up at the robot wearing a part of a man's face, using the voice that tells me I've come home, and find him looking back at me, a slight smile curving his lips. I realize, despite the oddity of his features, despite how shocking his eyes and exposed parts are, that something shifts about him, when he smiles. Like he becomes real, in those moments, as if he's no longer the tin man, but something more.

I also realize I'm staring—stuck in my thoughts as they meander through the darkened alleys and deep forests of my mind—when I nearly trip on a step and I quickly look away, warmth climbing to my cheeks in embarrassment. "S-sorry," I stutter, re-focusing on placing one foot in front of the other and aiming down my sights like a proper being who's walking around in a battlefield and wants to actually live through it.

"Whatever for?" he asks, the innocence in his tone drawing my eyes back to his, to check the sincerity of it—finding it pure as the driven snow.

My surprise overrules any carefully planned response. "I... was staring. It's rude. I t-tend to do that, so I'm s-sorry ahead of time, 'cause I'll probably do it again, without meaning to, and I'm b-babbling so I'm gonna shut up now." I clear my throat and jog ahead, checking around the corner for any mooks I can take pot shots at. Please, _please_ let there be an idiot I can kill soon.

I catch John's snort behind me. "Subtle, Shana."

I lift my left hand and a single finger up, just visible over my shoulder, aiming it at him. I'll let you guess which finger.

He chuckles. "That's more like it."

I lower the hand, cupping my pistol's grip properly again and slinking around the corner, heading to the next room. It turns out to be a fairly long hall, which contains a man and two ghouls, one of which immediately rushes me, and tries to whack me upside the head with a nailed bat. Fortunately, Mr. Valentine is quicker on the draw than I am right now, and pops two off in the ghoul's chest, two more from my own gun following soon after. The mobster collapses forward onto me, and I gladly use his corpse as a meat shield, shooting around him at the two remaining combatants.

It's but a moment until they're both dispatched. I shove the ghoul off, grimacing slightly at the large bloodstain he's left on my suit and thanking my lucky stars that I have spares, including a few I've picked up from this vault.

It's not long before we arrive at another locked door. Mr. Valentine explains that he hears Skinny Malone on the other side of the door; that we should be prepared for... whatever comes. John and I share a look. He nods. I return it. We three are the only ones walking away from this situation.

* * *

Turns out, the woman named Darla gets to walk, too, in the end. Regardless, Skinny and his two remaining lackeys go down with a minimum of fuss. We head outside, finally, and Mr. Valentine waxes poetic about the 'Wealth sky, which looks as blue as it ever does, really. Maybe it looks different, to the glowing embers of his own eyes.

He asks me to meet him in his office, in Diamond City, but leaves the company while traveling there up to me. I nod toward him. "May as well stick together, safety in numbers, and all that jazz."

"Alright then, follow me. It's not far, but there's a few raider nests along the way, so stay on your toes." He waves us on and starts off at a jog.

We follow, with quiet caution.

* * *

"Ellie? Are you here?"

"Nick?" echoes from the back and up a bit, and he turns toward the sound of her scrabbling down the stairs, hope turning to joy on his secretary's face as she sees him. "Oh god... it's really you!"

He half chuckles, unable to help the smile from creeping onto his lips, in the face of her unbridled rejoicing. "Well, it's hard to mistake this mug for anyone else."

Ellie harumphs at him, an unimpressed brow arching delicately over still-ecstatic eyes. "You keep laughin' at death, one day, it's gonna laugh back."

He smirks and tilts his view over to the new client. "Not as long as I got a few friends to back me up." He turns, sliding in behind his desk and into his chair, finally going home for the first time in over a month. God, it's great to be back.

Meanwhile, Ellie's bubbling over at the client, gushing her thanks at the woman for saving him, her job, and the agency.

The woman allows a tiny, kind smile to grace her lips. "Happy to do it."

Ellie looks at her skeptically. "Yeah? Go diving into scary pre-war ruins often, do ya?" She smirks, then hands a bag of caps and, oddly, a spare of his hat and coat to the woman. "Here. I know an amount wasn't on the table when you went out to find him, but you deserve a reward. Plus, a little something extra. You know, if you're lookin' for work, and don't mind putting on the detective hat, Nick sure could use a new partner..."

"Whoa," he interrupts, "one case at a time, Ellie. Our new friend needs our help, first." He dips his head toward the chair at the front of his desk. "Alright, let's get down to business. Take a seat, make yourself comfortable." He waits patiently, as she unburdens herself, sending her pack from her shoulders to the floor and adjusting her shotgun holster before she sits.

He continues when she looks at him, uncertainty in her startlingly blue eyes. It's a look he's often seen from her since she found him. "When you're trying to find someone that's missing, the devil is in the details. Try to tell me everything you can, no matter how... painful it might be."

He observes her taking a breath, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, his sensors firing off with reports of mild heat registered near his midsection from what little of the air from her lungs manages to reach him. He makes a mental note to crank his sensors back down. After a month in solitary, any sensation was worth having for a break from the boredom, but this is _way_ too sensitive for everyday work. Shaking himself from his internal train of thought, he focuses back on her, just as she begins to speak.

"Well," she begins, squirming a bit before she settles, mostly, and snaps those peepers back on him, "I guess, to get into that, I'd need to tell the whole story. As much as I know of it, at least."

He waves her on, encouraging her to do just that.

And so she does.

She tells him all about being on ice for all that time, what she's been through since she woke up, what she's found out in her own investigations. Going from being the average Jane to discovering she's someone with obvious training, not to mention the whole _'had an entire family and can't remember any of it'_ situation. Her lack of memory, combined with the suspicious methods used to take her family from her, all adds up to one hell of a case. The description of what can only be Kellogg clinches the whole thing, tying a big, fat bow on top of the case file, and handing it over like a juicy steak to a junkyard dog already pullin' at his chain.

Still, there's something else hiding behind those pre-war ocean blues that he just can't place, even as he rests his elbows on his chair's arms, steepling his fingers together under his nose and ogling her while she finishes the last of her tale. It's not something intrinsic to the case, no... at least, it doesn't feel that way. Hmm. It'll come to him, eventually.

He suggests the possible sources of the kidnapping's origin, though he's heavily leaning toward the Institute as the likely culprits, and his client seems to agree. He turns his head to Ellie, dutifully taking notes at his side, like always. "Ellie, what notes do we have on the Kellogg case?"

"The description matches the one she's giving, but nobody knows who his employer is."

Nick tilts his head, to look up at her easier. "He bought a house here in town, didn't he? And he had a kid with him if I recall correctly."

"Yeah, that's right." She nods. "It was the house in the abandoned West Stands. The boy he had with him was about... hmm. Ten years old, maybe?"

"You said he lives here? He's still in town?" This, from the client, eyes shining with eagerness.

He's almost sad to disappoint her with the news. "They both vanished a while back, but the house is still there." He stands and waves his new client on. "Let's you and I take a walk over to the house and see if we can snoop out where Kellogg went."

"Security doesn't really go to that part of town, but you two should still be careful," Ellie admonishes.

Nick smirks, turning back to reassure her, "I always am."


	11. Chapter 11

He waits until his client, Dogmeat and John—who'd changed into some classy digs with a less classy, mismatched, duct taped gas mask to top it off on the way in; effectively hiding his ghoulish looks—file out of his office, to pile on the next bits of information.

"I ah, didn't want Ellie to hear this, but I think you should know. Everything I dug up about Kellogg before his disappearance is _bad_ news. He's more than just a mercenary, he's a professional; quick, clean, thorough. Has no enemies, 'cause they're all _dead_... except you. But nine to one odds says he's our man. It's more than just you identifying his distinguishing features. The M.O. is all him as well. Leading a small team to kidnap a baby and leaving one of the parents alive for later? Not many mercs in the Commonwealth can pull that off."

He falls silent, leaving room for her, or even John to speak, but neither volunteer a single sound, beyond the soft ringing of their footsteps on the grating beneath them. He approaches the door, reaching out for the handle as he glances over his shoulder at her, breaking the weighty silence, "Here we are. Keep an eye out, will ya? I'll see if I can get this open."

He starts work on the lock, which he quickly discovers does not consist of the typical, clumsy tumblers he usually handles. "That's one heck of a lock... got somethin' to hide, Kellogg?" He huffs and stops after a few more seconds, afraid his crude tools will actually break the delicate mechanisms. He stands and heads toward her. "Why don't you give it a try?"

A snicker ushers through John's filters. "Good luck, lock."

Nick darts a look to Hancock, then over at his client, whose cheeks are slowly gaining a rosy color. "She's got a bit of finesse with a lock, does she? Handy skill to have."

"You've got no idea, brother. I've seen her crack safes that've been locked tight since before the war like they were butter under a hot knife. She never spends more than two pins on any lock. It's fucking uncanny." Nick can hear the clear admiration John has for her skill, even through the muffling of his masks' filters.

He looks to his client, then nods at the door. "Well then, this should be easy pickings for you... if you'll pardon the pun," he adds, grimacing sheepishly.

He observes, with some amusement, as she gives John the stink eye. "I'm going to strangle you for this, later, John. You watch."

John's lascivious laugh follows. "I look _forward_ to it."

She rolls her eyes as she heads for the door, clearly taking the Mayor's sexual baiting in stride. _Interesting_.

Nick peers back at John, hoping for some kind of clarification. Past experiences, an anecdote... maybe she'd slapped him? Wouldn't be the first time he's heard of that happening.

John just shrugs, saying nothing, the features that could've told him at least a little bit hidden behind that damned mask.

But, sure as John said, by the time he turns his attention back to the woman, the lock's popped and she's cracking the door open, checking for traps. She's cautious. Good. She'll need to be, to survive this case of hers.

He follows her in after she deems the entryway safe, eyes scanning the small space they find beyond with suspicion. "Let's take a look around. Kellogg must've left _something_ behind." He peers about as she goes to poking through the desk. He frowns at his surroundings. "Place seem small to you? Figured a guy like Kellogg would think big."

"That's because he did," comes his client's voice.

He doesn't have time to look at her, before the rattling racket of the wall panel swinging up right next to him distracts him utterly. "Well, that's one way to hide a room." His attention darts all around the interior of the hidden room as he enters, noting the shelves and their contents first. "Wouldja look at this? All of a merc's favorite things..."

"Gwinett Stout beer... .44 caliber bullets, and cigars... San Francisco Sunlights," she murmurs, having followed him in quickly and already taking an inventory of the table beside the merc's recliner. She plucks one of the untouched cigars from the box, rolling it between her fingers and passing it under her nose, which summarily scrunches in distaste. Oddly, she seems to take far less issue—even seeming slightly pleased—with the pack of Gray Tortoise's on the nearby countertop, pocketing it and the zippo next to it without a word or hint of displeasure.

"Hmm. Interesting brand," he muses, getting back on track, "Won't lead us anywhere on its own, though."

She turns to him, a hand on one slightly cocked hip. "Any suggestions, Mister Valentine?"

Again, he hums thoughtfully. "What about Dogmeat? A Commonwealth mutt like him can track a man's scent for miles."

Dogmeat barks, apparently agreeing with him.

She blinks several times, then stares back at said mutt. " _That's_ his name?" Dogmeat barks again. "Wait," she spins back to face him, pointing at his person, "how do _you_ know his name?"

He tilts his head, smiling at the dog and answering fondly, "Oh, well, he's been with other clients, worked other cases with me in the past. I figured you'd know his name already; usually, people know it before they get to me. He's a bit of his own man, really. How long has he stuck by you?"

She shakes her head. "I've been calling him 'Dog' this whole time because it was the only thing he'd half respond to." She shrugs, straightening and murmuring, "Seems I was right about the naming conventions." She huffs a tiny laugh, shaking her head once more as she lowers it a bit to ogle Dogmeat, lifting a hand to worry her lower lip with her thumbnail. She straightens and turns back to Nick before answering his question, "He's been with me for about... a month, maybe a little longer. Just showed up one day..."

Nick hums a low, pensive sound through his vocal chords. "Well. Regardless, he seems eager for the job. Why don't you let him have a whiff of one of the spent cigars? See if he picks up on the trail." He holds his still whole hand out to halt her. "Before you head out, ah... I know this is... personal business. If you want to face Kellogg without me, just say so. Besides, you've already got John and Dogmeat with ya, that's more than enough support, even for hunting a man like Kellogg."

She levels an expression at him that he's seen more than a few times in his long life, the triple C's: curiosity, cynicism, and caution. "Any words of wisdom?"

"If Kellogg really is the one who kidnapped your son, then he's dangerous." He pauses to give himself time to consider, then realizes he doesn't really have to think about it and rambles on, "But then, so are _you_. You don't need to be afraid of him, or anything else the Commonwealth throws at you."

She nods sharply, no uncertainty in her eyes. "I want you with me on this."

He blinks but reels in his surprise quickly. "Alright. Then let's get that bastard. This is your show from here on out, okay? You say 'jump', I'll say 'how high'."

At that, she does hesitate for a moment, giving him a once-over with a measuring stare, but soon graces him with that same firm nod she seems so fond of. She takes a step closer, holding out her hand. "Shana Stewart, by the way. We were never properly introduced."

The harsh lighting in the room does nothing to diminish the dame's features, which he studies as his gaze sweeps over her and settles on her outstretched member, only to realize she's extended her _right_ hand. He starts to lift his own to meet hers, then stops and holds it up as lame excuse and apology in one, moving to extend his left, instead.

But she shakes her head, eyes turning from his face, down to her hand, then to his right and back up to his eyes. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it, Mister Valentine."

His processors stutter to a halt, clogging down with new data. He can count the number of times someone's willingly shaken his metal hand on one finger, and he's still nursing the suspicion _that_ particular woman had a _very_ unhealthy 'bot fetish. His client just doesn't seem the type to be hiding such a thing.

...Not that she really has _room_ to hide anything in that suit of hers... which he's studiously avoided looking at for too long, out of respect for his _client_.

Sluggishly, his CPU eventually grinds through the data and comes back up for much-needed coolant. He hesitantly produces his right hand, carefully slotting it into hers; applying a light, uncertain grip, unused to the motion after so many years of using his left hand for it. His lack of tactile sensors in that hand makes it more than a little difficult to gauge exactly how much pressure he should use, to begin with.

She shakes his hand like she might any others', her grip and movements sure, professional. Another hard nod follows. "Pleased to meet you."

He blinks a few times, then returns the nod. "Pleasure's mine, Missus Stewart."

" _Miss_ Stewart. Or Shana, p-preferably. But that's up t-to you," she gently corrects, stumbling over her words a bit, a light flush coloring her cheeks.

He notes somewhat absently that their hands have yet to disconnect. "Of course, Miss... I mean, Shana. You can feel free to call me Nick, naturally."

And then, a small miracle occurs.

She _smiles_. A real, unabashed grin—the first he's seen from her—revealing two straight rows of pearly whites, the likes of which he hasn't seen anywhere, except in human Nick's faded, hazy memories. Good old pre-war dentistry, still hard at work in this time capsule of a woman.

He wonders what the old Nick would've thought of her.

That question triggers an actual memory from the source, dredged up from somewhere in the back of his hard drives; quick, vivid, detailed, utterly searing his memory banks with the undeniable power of _recognition_.

He does the best he can to keep the shock this causes him off his face, wanting more time to consider the revelation for what it is. He's not sure how much he succeeds, but before she can suspect too much, he gently withdraws his hand from hers, clearing his throat as if he'd only now realized he'd been standing there like a starstruck schmuck, staring.

"Well, now that the pleasantries are over with, shouldn't we be going? We've still got a kidnapper to hunt." He thanks his lucky stars that his voice is even and no more awkward or halting than it ever is.

The slight pinch of a frown creases the space between her eyebrows. He has the maddening impulse to reach over and smooth it out with his left thumb; an impulse which he quickly stomps down, then carefully records for later pondering.

His processors are gonna be working overtime and then some, on this case. He'll need to top off his coolant soon, preferably when he gets back to town. ...Maybe even splurge on an extra gallon of the stuff, while he's at it.

He moves to the door and opens it, heading through and holding it for her on the other side, a quiet smile on his lips as he watches her pass and lead on. Dogmeat lopes calmly after her but pauses when she crouches beside him, holding the cigar stub out for him. John stops in front of Nick, facing him and standing just out of the way of the door. Nick lets it swing closed on the power of its own weight, the sound of it slamming home against the frame a solid one.

"You know," John murmurs, too quietly for Shana to overhear him, "pretty sure she caught that, just now."

"I'm sure I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about," Nick returns, just as softly, keeping his expression and tone even.

He can hear the frown and hint of tightly held anger in John's voice. "Cut the shit, Nicky; she's not blind and neither am I." John points at him. "You _recognized_ her. She's not callin' you out on it yet, but she _will,_ believe me. And she's got her reasons— _good_ ones—for doin' it, too."

Nick purses his lips into a thin line, huffing out a breath of air out that he doesn't need, but which satisfies some perverse need for it in him nonetheless. "I'm not even sure what happened, John. There was a flash of an old memory, but... it wasn't as clear as I'd like. Never is." It's a lie, but he needs time alone to _think_. "Why you grillin' me on this, anyway? You carryin' a torch for her or somethin'?"

"...No."

Nick arches a brow at John, pinning him with an unbelieving look.

John shakes his head, shrugging off the accusing stare; voice sounding slightly resentful, but also amused when he comments, "You two are a fuckin' pair, I gotta tell ya. Both got the most fucked up memory problems I've ever seen."

Nick nods his assent. "Gotta hand ya that one. Never thought I'd run across anyone as scatterbrained as I am in that department, but it looks like I was wrong. Her case is definitely one of the rougher ones that I've encountered."

"If you two are done with your boy talk back there, I think Dog... meat has the scent." His client remains crouched next to the dog, with the fingers of her left hand crooked into his black and white skull motif bandanna, though she's shifted a bit to peek back at the 'bot and ghoul behind her now.

He takes a step forward and clears his throat, gesturing ahead. "Well, let's get to it, then."

Dogmeat barks and takes off the moment his Mistress releases him. His client— _Shana—_ stands and heads out after him, Nick and John following close behind.

* * *

John pops three mentats; his nerves jumpy and senses too dull for his tastes, though he reminds himself they're still sharper than hers, even on his most hungover days. He can hear the crunch of gravel beneath Dogmeat's paws as he leads them down Kellogg's trail of destruction. He can pick out the soft panting coming from Shana and the dog both, even over his own. Nick's servos and rusty joints are quieter, but still a racket at his side. He refocuses on Shana's breathing, keeping a metaphorical finger on the pulse of her wellbeing.

He _almost_ wishes she'd left him behind for this little adventure; even as he's insanely glad she's allowed him to be here, helping her, at the same time.

Of fucking _course,_ the voice would be Nicky's. Naturally, the pristine pre-war doll would be tagged and tied to the old 'bot with the matching pre-war memories. Who else could it have been? Some pre-war ghoul, whose voice got ripped to shreds by radiation and rot? She'd never recognize that. _Him_ , though? That collection of metal bits and dream-like memories which only half belong to him—don't belong to him at _all_ , if you ask him on a late, smoke-filled, lonely night—is the only piece of the past left that could possibly fit the puzzle that is _her_.

Much as it _burns_ him to admit it.

Carryin' a fuckin' torch, indeed.

Ah, _hell_ , he needs to get a _grip_. How'd he get like this? All torn up over some woman he barely... but no, that's not true. He knows her as well as she knows herself, really. Sure as hell knows her better than Nicky did before she _smiled_ at him. _Damn_ it all, what did that old 'bot _remember_? He'd tried to pry the truth from him a few times on the way, but the dick had steadfastly refused, insisting the memory wasn't clear enough to accurately explain it. Said it was more of a _feeling_ of familiarity than any actual images or events.

 _Brahmin shit_ , he says.

You can't fake the sudden recognition that plastered itself on Nicky's face in that moment.

And oh, she _saw it_ , alright. Saw it clear as day. He can tell by just lookin' at her now, seein' the eager little bounce in her step... even if he hadn't witnessed the unabashed _hope_ in her eyes when she first realized Nicky'd made her.

He feels sure she'll ask the synth about it, probably sooner than later.

Possibly after they deal with Kellogg.

...And after they find Shaun.

She'll ask him, after.

And then... _then_ , he'll really have to get a grip on himself, because then, there'll be no room for him, no chance. And he'll have to pick himself up by his bootstraps and move on.

* * *

I'm doing all I can to keep my focus, I really am. But John is being... _strange_.

And don't even get me started on this whole thing with Nick. I saw that look on his face, sure as if it'd been my own, though I've kept mum about it so far.

That won't last long.

Shit, it might not last the next _five minutes_ , if John doesn't stop _brooding_.

Every single one of my nerves is a live wire right now. There're _so_ many things going on right now, so many pulls and tugs and pressures and... _fuck_!

I have to hunt down this man, exact vengeance for a husband I don't remember. If Shaun isn't there—which seems likely, given my luck so far—I have to extract information from Kellogg on the child I don't know, continue to track that child and find him, before I've satisfied myself with the state of the 'Wealth for the sake of raising of said child. All that, amidst the turmoil between my current companions and I. Oh, _and_ I have to take care of all the settlements that Preston wants me to look after. And rescue these traders, and kill these muties, and help this person kill that one.

Just when the _fuck_ did I become the keeper of the entire goddamn Commonwealth?


	12. Chapter 12

Dead.

Dead and gone, gray matter and blood and chunks of bone with scalp sticking to it dead.

That's Kellogg, right now.

I did that.

I was the one that fired off three 10mm rounds into his head at nigh-point-blank range before he could finish whatever pointless threat he was in the middle of spouting.

I was the one that looked on as everything fell apart.

That watched, as he fell to the ground.

That listened, as my companions took down the two remaining mockeries of humanity protecting that bastard.

That blinked, as the raging fire seared my side, and looked down to see a blackened, singed hole through my brand fucking new jumpsuit.

Through _me_.

"Shit! Stimpak Nicky, _find_ one!" I hear this and vaguely recognize John as the one speaking, though I really don't understand why he doesn't just check my pack—I'm constantly collecting every conceivable drug in existence, just in case.

Who is it that needs one, anyway? Nick doesn't look any more beat up right now than he has since the moment I met him. John doesn't seem injured—I don't see any blood as I turn to look him over with a clinical eye. He's getting really close, actually. Why is he acting like he's catching...

I... oh. Oh. It's _me_. I'm the one that needs the stimpak. And the catching, apparently.

Okay. I think I need to lay down, now.

I think... I think I need to sleep.

* * *

"Shit! Stimpak Nicky, _find_ one!" Panic seeps into his veins like a bad batch of psycho; crawling, creeping, itching down his spine so deep there's no way to scratch it, but _fuck_ if he doesn't want to _try._ He's caught her—god, actually _caught her—_ because she fucking _blacked out_ from shock.

Distantly, he measures the quick steps Nicky takes toward them, registers the way his rusted knees actually _groan_ from the lack of oiling, notes that he's reaching for her backpack. Right, that... that makes sense. If anyone would have actual medical supplies, it'd be her, all hoarded away in that pack she sometimes complains about weighing her down into an early grave.

"No, no, not you. No graves for you. Not fucking yet, you don't." He realizes he's let these thoughts become reality but doesn't much care; let Nicky think what he wants. He takes the syringes his old pal retrieves from her pack; uncap, expel the air, inject. Rinse, repeat, all around the wound. Both fucking sides.

 _Fuck_.

Even he can easily pick out the singed flesh and flame-retardant fabric scent in the air, ruined as his nose is. Normally, it doesn't bother him all that much. Right now... right now, he's staring at her flesh knitting together bit by bit, hoping against hope that it's enough.

* * *

No, no, no, _no_! He'd been quick on the draw, but the other synth had been quicker. He'd born witness to the damned thing charging, aiming, and shooting that laser rifle at _her_ , like _he_ wasn't the most immediate threat to its existence.

But it hadn't cared. Its directive had been to protect that scumbag of a merc, not itself.

There had been no soul in that constructs' mainframe—nothing behind the yellow eyes that are such hauntingly exact twins to his own.

There never is.

He wonders, absently, as he hands the stimpaks to his friend, how it is that his companions never equate him to the others; how they don't just lump them all together in their minds.

Somehow, he's never seen his friend look at him the same way he looks at the other gen 2's. Didn't see it even once in her eyes, either.

But why?

He monitors her pulse and other vitals as much as his sensors will allow him to, as he considers his never-ending question. John is more than quick enough to keep the blood loss to a minimum. She should be fine in another few hours or so. Scarred, likely still a bit in shock, but fine.

It's not the first time he's considered all of this, not by a long shot. But he has more reason than ever now, to rehash it all.

He's supporting his reason's head in the webbed cradle of his open hands, right now.

Despite the situation, even despite his friend's slowly easing panic, the scene is almost... peaceful, now. As he looks down at her face, there are no indications of pain or discomfort in the slopes and curvature of her features. There is no pinch between those brows for him to smooth out.

Honestly, though her being in shock is far from ideal, it's better that she's been unconscious for the majority of her healing process. At least there was little to no pain, for her. She'll still need to see a proper Doctor, once they get back to what passes for civilization these days.

He hopes they'll reach that civilization soon. He needs some time alone, to think.

* * *

 _You made me love you_  
 _I didn't want to do it_  
 _I didn't want to do it_  
 _You made me want you_  
 _And all the time you knew it_  
 _I guess you always knew it_

The strains of the old song filter through the speaker grill of the radio, making it uncertain where the crackling and pops of static come from; whether the shoddy old speaker, the reception of the bent antenna, or the likely abundant scratches in the record itself.

 _You made me happy_  
 _Sometimes you made me glad_  
 _But there were times, dear_  
 _You made me feel so bad_

A hazy sense of comfort enfolds me, surrounding me in a net and warmth of safety I haven't felt since... well, ever, really. I hear the sounds of boots scuffing along a floor in time to the band's rhythm.

 _You made me sigh for_  
 _I didn't want to tell you_  
 _I didn't want to tell you_  
 _I want some love, that's true_

I crack my eyes open, wincing tightly at the light of the lamp above me. I roll my head to let my vision encompass the room beside me. I realize I'm in the old State House. John's office... how...?

 _Give me, give me, what I cry for_  
 _You know ya got the brand o' kisses that I'd die for_  
 _You know you made me love you_

The scuffing, as it turns out, is the Mayor himself, dancing with his daughter; both obliviously, blissfully unaware of my being awake.

 _You made me sigh for_  
 _I didn't want to tell you_  
 _I didn't want to tell you_  
 _I want some love, that's true_  
 _Yes I do, indeed I do, you know I do_

The last thing I remember...

Ah.

I got shot.

Well, that explains some things.

Why John's coat is being used as my blanket, for one.

 _Give me, give me, give me what I cry for_  
 _You know ya got the brand o' kisses that I'd die for_  
 _You know you made me love you_

I run my hand down beneath his coat, along where there was once a hole in my spleen—probably not _actually_ my spleen; I'm apparently pretty terrible at anatomy—getting a feel for the indented flesh and scar tissue that's formed there. Sluggishly, I make my way around to the back half of the wound, a fairly similar depression in the skin and firmness of scar tissue greeting me, for my efforts.

I watch as John gently dips his daughter at the end of the song, both coming back up laughing comfortably. I decide to play asleep, so as not to break their moment up.

"So'd you tell her?" Fahrenheit asks, from somewhere near the end of the opposite couch.

"Tell her what?" John, a soft grunt and the sound of him sitting on that couch, following.

"What do you _think_ , John?" Fahr asks, sounding exasperated at having to spell things out for him. "Anybody with eyes can see you got a thing for the vaultie. Did you tell her?"

"Why the hell would I do that? And who says I do? Sounds to me like someone needs a pumpin' full a' lead." Even I can't buy his defensiveness over the whole thing. Just the _sound_ of it is... forced. Damn.

 _Damn_ it, damn it _all_ , John.

" _Nobody's_ gonna believe that act, John. I don't think even Kent could swallow that load of shit." The damnation from his own daughter echoes my own with perfect clarity.

He flounders for a bit, half-starts abandoned almost before they begin. "But she... I... you... my... _fuck_." The last, being the first honest-sounding word in the entire attempt. "There's no _point_ in tellin' her anything, Fahr. She's got her head rammed so far up Nicky's ass, he'll never shit it out."

"Whoa. I don't know whether to comment on how insane she's gotta be to choose a busted up _synth_ over you, or on how fucking _bitter_ you are over it. They're both pretty equally stunning, in their own right."

I... well. I'm not _exactly_ arguing that, but on the other hand... yeah, I'm arguing that. My insanity, that is. He's _definitely_ bitter. Makes me sad to hear exactly _how_ bitter.

A heavy sigh from John. "Just... gimme some time, Fahr. Ham wanted to talk to you earlier, did you go see him yet?"

There's a pause, before she responds, "You could just say, 'get the fuck out, Fahr'. I mean, it's basically the same thi—"

"Fine!" he snaps, "You wanna be like that, get the fuck out. Go talk to Ham and let me sulk for a while." His tone softens, lending an almost pleading quality to his next words, "Gimme a few hours. I just... need to fuck off for a bit."

"Yeah, yeah. Should I tell Nicky to fuck off, too?" She sounds incredibly un-offended; apparently, this is a fairly normal conversation for them.

Another sigh, this one a touch lighter than the last. "Nah. If he wants to come up here, that's his business. If he doesn't like my drug use while he's up here, that's _also_ his business, but it's _my house_ , so his opinion on _that_ can fuck off."

Awfully specific.

"So, don't say anything, because he just heard all of that." Ah. Interesting. "Got it. Don't drown yourself, John." The scuffling of her boots on the floor indicates her turning to leave.

"Yeah, yeah," he parrots back, falling silent as Fahr's steps lead her from the room.

The sound of the door closing cinches a neat bow on the illusion of privacy in the room that they now share.

A canister of something is shaken, then inhaled; once, twice, thrice. Seconds tick by, then slowly, he releases the drug from his lungs with a slight moan, smacks his lips once or twice, and lights a cigarette.

"You gonna keep pretending you're asleep, or we gonna have an actual conversation here?"

I finally let my carefully regulated breathing fall by the wayside, taking a deep breath and again cracking an eye open, brow arched as I grace him with the attention of exactly one eye. "Depends. What are we potentially conversing about?"

He snorts, letting his gaze travel from me, to the cigarette he holds gingerly between fore and middle finger; rolling it until its filter sits wedged between thumb and forefinger, before bringing it to his lips for a long drag. He peers at me over the bright ember of the cherry; eyes squinted both from the light and smoke, and something that looks like calculation, evaluation, like he's sizing me up, _again_. Finally, he breaks the eye contact and pulls the filter from his lips, leaning forward to tap the ash into one of the many ashtrays on the table, as he lets the smoke seep from his nasal cavity.

Leaning back again, dragging the ashtray onto his knee, he again fixes me with his stare. Finally, he deigns to answer me.

"How much did you actually hear?"

I consider lying to him. I really do. I could do it, easily. But I don't want to. Instead, I open my second eye as I take a breath and let it gust out slowly, singing the verse, " _Give me, give me, give me what I cry for, you know ya got the brand o' kisses that I'd die for, you know you made me love you._ " It's lacking quite a bit, since I'm lying down, but I still hit all the notes. It gets the point across.

He's nodding slowly as I finish, rolling the ash around in the tray absently. "Why'd you pretend to be asleep all that time?"

"I didn't want to ruin the moment for you or your daughter. Didn't seem right." I shrug, though it loses most of its effect to the cushions. "And after... well. I didn't want to embarrass you further than you already were, or would be."

He sends a stream of smoke toward the rafters, eyes falling to me gently after. "Kind of you."

I shrug my head a bit. "I tried. Couldn't help when I woke up. 'Preciate the whole... not letting me bleed out, and keepin' me warm thing." I slide my hand out from under his coat and nudge it, looking to him. "Guessing you want this back, now?"

He shrugs properly, pointing to the back of the couch I'm on. "Sling it up there if you're hot."

I look at him, pointedly nodding at his coatless, though still fully clothed state. "You're not cold at all?"

He shakes his head. "Not a bit, darlin'. But thanks for askin'."

This is all wrong. I purse my lips and get my elbows under me, moving to sit up.

"Ah-ah, hang on." He stubs out his fag, setting the ashtray on the table and standing, coming around and kneeling next to me, hands sliding into supportive positions. He nods at me. "Alright. Doc said not to let you strain yourself just yet."

I snort, nodding amicably. "I suppose she might, at that. I just want to sit up and turn, shouldn't bust anything from that, should I?"

He casts a wary glance toward my wound's location. I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical presence, even through his coat. He shifts that weight back up to my face. "She didn't say, specifically, but it should be alright, long as I'm helpin' ya."

I nod, re-starting the process and finding I don't mind his support on the way up. It's comforting, in a way. A part of that warm safety net, I guess.

I wonder if that net's about to snap.

I _hope not_.

I settle with his coat covering my lap, realizing after a few moments that he's still kneeling by the couch—directly in front of me now, hands cupping the bent knees of my folded legs—like he's offering every last dignity he has up to me on a drug-filled, blood-splattered, irradiated platter.

It's... actually a bit... _tempting_.

...More than a bit.

More so than I should rightly admit, at least, even to myself. I wasn't joking when I told him he was my type.

If not for that siren call, if not for... well. I don't even know what, really. Nick's hardly being voluntarily cooperative—not that I blame him, entirely. It's all...

 _Fucked_ , that's what. It's all _fucked_. And not _well_ fucked either—it's sloppy seconds with your third cousin Randy, whom you're not entirely certain isn't more than just a tad bit special, and _not in a good way_.

It's as I'm sitting there, giving him an absolutely miserable look of commiseration, that there's a rather sharp if tempered knock at the door. "You two alright in there?"

It's Nick. Must've knocked with his right hand.

I haven't turned away from John's gaze yet, nor he, mine. It takes a long moment before I gain the presence of mind to call out, "We're fine, Nick."

I hear the clink of his metal digits landing gently on the door's handle, pressing down, the hinges creaking softly. I look up just as the door clears the view of his stove element on high eyes. He hesitates when he sees us, looking back and forth between us with indecision clear on his face.

"Say, I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I can come back later, just thought you'd like to talk the case over. But... I should probably let you recover." He's already turning to leave before I get the chance to say anything.

I do, anyway. "Nick! Wait. I'm fine. Come in, have a seat; we really should talk about the case. Among other things."

He turns halfway back, hesitantly, one eye trained somewhere near my knee. It takes a few seconds for me to remember John's hands resting on them. "I ah... well, alright." He steps inside, turning to gently close the doors back behind him.

The radio, now turned down a bit but still on, starts into the beginning strains of "Serenade in Blue".

 _When I hear that Serenade in blue_  
 _I'm somewhere in another world, alone with you_  
 _Sharing all the joys we used to know_  
 _Many moons ago_

He turns and strolls slowly over to the other couch, standing in front of it, peering down at us once more. With a soft sigh, he seats himself, expression terse, the hands folded together on his lap held tightly.

 _Once again your face comes back to me_  
 _Just like the theme of some forgotten melody_  
 _In the album of my memory_  
 _Serenade in blue_

John smirks somewhat sadly up at me, pats my left knee, then stands and flops himself a half foot away from my right side, left arm thrown over the back of the couch, right hand plucking a jet inhaler from somewhere. Reaching that hidden left hand back up, he removes his hat, and plops the headgear on the couch, next to the far arm on my left, before returning his own arm to its repose behind me. I can see him administering his jet dose from the corner of my eye, as I re-focus on Nick.

 _It seems like only yesterday_  
 _The small cafe, a crowded floor_  
 _And as we danced the night away_  
 _I hear you say forever more_  
 _And then the song became a sigh_  
 _Forever more became goodbye_  
 _But you remained in my heart  
_

He's sitting back now, the folded hands separating to pluck a cigarette from a battered pack he drags from his coat's breast pocket; practiced, smooth movements executing themselves without thought as he flicks the cap open on the zippo, and strikes the flint with his metal thumb. The cap clicks closed, his fag's cherry flaring with heat as brightly as his eyes.

 _Tell me darling is there still a spark?_  
 _Or only lonely ashes of the love we knew_  
 _Should I go on whistling in the dark,_  
 _Serenade in blue_

I watch him, as the song ends, quietly contemplating his existence. The impossibility of it. The improbability of my own. How must he feel about this situation? What, precisely, did he remember about me? I need to know, not only to fill in the gaps but to understand how it is he's seeing me, what he could be using to frame his reference of who I am, to him, to the world.

Who was I?

He knows. He's the only one who does.

And he's keeping it to himself.

Is it out of fear? Was I a bad person? Or is he just uncertain what it means to him? Was I a cop? A criminal? A friend, foe, consultant, secretary, hooker, _what_?! What was I? Who was I, to him?

I pull out my own pack, the one I'd pinched from Kellogg's hidden room earlier, peeling the brittle cellophane out of the way, prying the foil paper up and away, using my fingernails to pick one little filter out of the bunch. I bring it between my lips, putting the pack away and reaching for the lighter, before suddenly, John's is in front of me, already lit. I glance at him, nod, and lean forward to draw on the flame.

I'm careful not to inhale anything just yet; I'd made that mistake back when I first tried this with Mac one day. I've since learned to ease into it. Tiny bits of smoke inhaled after a few closed-throated puffs. It's a show, a socially acceptable activity to ease the nerves and fit in. A simple tool, not a chemical crutch.

I toss a "Thanks" at John, then focus back on Nick with a thoughtful look, worrying my lower lip with my thumbnail.

Nick points at my cigarette, with the same hand holding his own. "That's an unhealthy habit, you know."

I snort, offering up a wry smirk. "So's living."

He chuckles, head dipping as he nods. "True enough."

I reach for an ashtray, which John promptly snags and holds out for me, keeping it for himself and just letting me use it when needed.

Finally, the dam bursts.

"I... can't. I'm sorry Nick, but... I _have_ to call you out. I have to, for my own sanity and to break the damned _tension_ here. What... and _how_ did you remember?"

He stares at me, a mix of mild horror and less mild shock on his features, jaw slack, those eyes accusing me of his pain like I'd slapped him. _Damn_ , how does a robotic man have such real emotions? Then again, if he's... actually _remembered_ something about me... was he not always a robot? Or has he just developed sentience over the centuries? Shit, I hate not having all the facts.

I see the motion of his throat constricting, though I have to wonder if he's actually swallowing something like saliva, or if his throat is as dry as the Sahara and it's just a nervous tic. He's managed to close his mouth, at least.

Gods, it's just so... _human_.

Unconsciously, I recognize that I've been treating him differently than his synth brethren, without even trying to, because that difference between him and them is so utterly palpable. It's in this moment that I realize Nick _must_ be different. Despite his appearance, he's... a different model, or has different programming, or he's...

"I..." He clears his throat, then reaches forward and taps a long ash from his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. "Well, I don't generally go spreading this around, but... John already knows, and I figure... well, you should probably know the truth, at this point. I'm not... like the other synths you saw in Hagen, earlier today. They're... well, they're barely sentient, really. Not much better than protectrons, in the grand scheme of things. I'm a... well..."

He draws a breath, sighs it out, takes a drag, then continues, "I'm a discarded prototype. Best I can tell, the Institute designed me to be a bridge in their technology, between the gen 2's and the gen 3's, the ones you hear about replacing people these days. I've got a heck of a lot more features than the average, mass produced gen 2 does, but... well, look at me." He gestures to himself, expression less than impressed. "I'm a wreck. I'm sure as heck not human, though they _tried_ to fake that, too."

He frowns, taking one last drag from his smoke and stubbing it out, almost angrily. "My whole shtick, the personality, the getup, the accent? All comes from a pre-war cop of the same name. The original Nick Valentine was human, volunteered to have his brain scanned; figured he didn't have much to lose at that point. Anyway, apparently the Institute didn't like how poorly the memories meshed with this body or something and tossed me out on my ass in a garbage heap. Been on my own ever since. That's been... oh, sixty years ago now, give or take a few days."

He folds his hands again, still leaning forward, forearms pressed into his thighs from how hard he's hunching in on himself as he recounts his tale. "The... the memories from Nick, they're... disjointed, fuzzy, often vague; a defect the Institute apparently couldn't fix. But... he remembers you."

I tap the ash from my own cigarette, taking the last drag from it, inhaling most of it shortly, then letting it flow from me and stubbing out my spent butt in the ashtray John's still holding for me. He puts it on the table, once I finish.

I've just parted my lips, about to speak, to finally dig up what he remembers, when a sudden explosion rattles the windows. I turn to look out one of those windows, bearing witness to the top of the mushroom cloud outside. I feel John leap up from the couch, hear Nick scrambling for the door already and I swivel, holding John's coat out to him, snagging his hat too, presenting both to him like they're his armor. Like they're his shield, and I'm telling him to come back with it in his hand, or on it.

"John," I say, getting his attention.

He looks at me strangely for a second, then smirks, nodding and quickly donning them. "Stay here, Shana. I don't... just stay here. You'll be safe here," he insists, as he fastens the second to last button with fingers shaking from adrenaline.

I snatch three mentats from the table as he finishes the last button and I hold them out, palm-up.

He grins and kisses them from my palm, one of them purposely stuck between the rows of his teeth as he straightens and winks, still grinning like a loon, turning to bolt from the room. He speaks to the guards outside, and one of the ghouls steps inside then closes and boards the door. He turns and keeps his gaze on me, his pale blue, milky eyes watching me like _I'm_ his assignment.

Distantly, I realize I'm still blushing a bit, my palm slightly damp from John's mouth. I clear my throat and try to distract myself. Searching around the room from my seat, I find my pack and holsters on the floor beside the couch. I start to reach for them.

"No. Hancock said you stay there, sit still and heal. So that's what you're gonna do." This, from the ghoul at the door, who is apparently now my nanny.

I arch an eyebrow at him. "That so? And what if whatever's attacking out there gets up here? What if one of those nukes hits up here?"

He scoffs at me like I'm an idiot teenager pouting under his care. "Not gonna happen. It's super mutants. It's always super mutants. We're good at killin' muties. The fact that there ain't been another nuke yet tells me they already killed the one with the fat man. Only a matter of time before the rest are taken care of."

I tune into the staccato beat of gunfire from many different guns and shooters outside, set my jaw tightly, and wait.

"So what's your deal?" comes the unexpected continuation of this ghoul's conversation.

I frown my confusion at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs and gestures to my person in one movement. "What's up with you cleanin' out the Commonwealth like it's your personal backyard or some shit? Not that I'm complainin'; makes my job a fuck of a lot easier. I'm just wonderin' why you're doin' it."

I shrug, considering going for another smoke, just for something to do; instead I stop, reconsider and answer the man, "Because it needs to be done. Because I don't want to raise my son in a place where I'm not sure he wouldn't be murdered just for existing, if I ever find him. Because it makes life better for everyone. Because I can't stand bullies."

An impressed nod makes its way out of him. "Right on, sister. You've already got a good rep here, you're always welcome in Goodneighbor. But knowing why you're doin' it will put a lot of minds at rest." He nods again, looking me over in the same way his boss is so fond of doing. "Heard the boss askin' Fahr about places in town for ya... there's a little apartment above the Memory Den, been empty for a while 'cause Irma and Doc Amari are picky who they let stay up there. I'll bet ya a week of pay they'd let _you_ rent it, though. I can ask 'em for ya, if ya like."

I don't bother to mask my pleased surprise at his offer. "I... well I'd like that very much, yes. Thank you, for letting me know, and for the offer."

He shrugs again, smiling slightly. "Think of it as thanks for cleanin' up the Commonwealth, sister. We owe ya one."

I blush a bit and duck my head as I fruitlessly try to hide it. "Nobody owes me anything. I'm doin' it because it's the right thing. Thank the right thing."

He snorts, shaking his head. "Whatever you say."

The gunfire outside finally starts to die down.

I wait, silently hoping nobody has to be carried home on their shields.


	13. Chapter 13

It's another thirty minutes before Hancock knocks on the door. "Open up, Mozzy. Muties are taken care of; gate's gettin' rebuilt as I speak."

My guard—who is apparently called Mozzy—turns and lifts the bar from the doors, setting it aside and opening the doors for the Mayor. "Losses?"

John shrugs. "Nicky got a new battle scar probably, O'Conolly lost a toe." He chuckles. "Hey, he's even with me now."

Mozzy snorts, tipping his head toward me in indication. "Pretty sure she's ready to do something besides sit there. Gonna run a quick favor for her. I'll head over and help with the gate after, let you know when it's finished."

John slaps the ghoul on the back. "Good man. Wait, what favor?" he demands, eying me with guarded curiosity.

Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Mozzy replies, "Talkin' to Irma about the apartment. Figure they'd rent it to her if they were gonna rent it to anyone."

Hancock blinks in apparent surprise, re-focusing on his ghoul guard. "Shit, I didn't even know it was empty. How long's it been shut down?"

Mozzy shrugs lazily. "No clue. A month at least—long enough for whatever stench the last tenant left in there to clear out, I'm sure. You know they're picky about that place."

John sneers slightly. "Yeah well, I don't blame 'em. It's their building anyway, I'm not gonna begrudge 'em their pickiness. I'm picky about who lives with me, too."

The other ghoul snorts. "No, you're not, boss."

Hancock grins slyly. "Nah, but it never hurts to pretend. Anyway yeah, go for it. Check with Amari while you're at it, see how Nicky's doin'."

Mozzy nods his assent. "Sure thing, boss." He glances back at me, touching two fingers to his bowler. "General Stewart."

My eyes go wide with surprise, brows lifting. "You know my name?"

The ghoul pauses, tilting his head at me, a mildly confused and amused expression clouding his features. "Everyone who doesn't have their head under a rock does." He snorts softly and continues through the door.

John finally makes his way into the room, a smirk on his lips. "You're famous, doncha know? Even Travis talks about ya all the time. The Diamond City Radio guy? Yeah, him. Tells people all about the good you're doin' out there. He's usually a little behind the times, but he gets the word out there when he can. Hard to get news in that uptight shithole. Anyway, how ya feelin'?"

"Concerned, for multiple reasons." I pause for him to decide wherever he's going to settle in, picking at my fingers as I wait. "How bad is Nick hurt?" I can't help but ask.

His brows lift curiously as he flops down next to me, snagging an ashtray and propping it on his knee. "That so? You gonna elaborate, or leave me to guess?" He waves off my question and concern. "Not bad, I don't think. We got him to Amari quick enough, he'll be fine."

I glance at him, looking him over and satisfying my needs to both observe his mood for a moment and check him for injury all in one. I look back at my hands when he goes to light his smoke, finally answering him, "Concerned for Nick, for you, for this... vaunted reputation I'm getting, for... a lot of things. There's... a little too much on my plate right now. I'm not built to be the leader of many. A few, I can handle. But this is getting... complex, big. Too big. Too much at stake for it to all hinge on one person. Nobody could reasonably bear all of that alone."

"Well shit, that's a lot weightier than I was expecting." He nods his head toward something on the table. "Can ya hand me that tin, darlin'? Sounds like you're gonna need me at my best for this."

I look, finding a large mentats tin where he's indicated. I shake my head, even as I reach for the tin. "You're already there, John."

He snorts. "Where? What, you saying I'm already at my best?"

I nod, handing him the tin and turning my head to focus on him. "Always. You're _always_ at your best." I tap a finger on the tin as it rests in his hands. "I've never once seen you actually need these to give me good advice, or to be a good friend, or to blow the head off some asshole when you need to. Take it all you want, but it doesn't do anything for you, in my estimation."

He stares at me, apparently a wee bit stunned, only finding his mouth after a few long seconds of silence. "Well... shit. I... think you might be overestimatin' my uh... _everything_ there just a tad, darlin'."

"You're deflecting," I smirk and look away, back to my fingers to resume picking at them. "That's fine. But now you know. That's how _I_ feel. I figure it's only fair, considering I heard all," I gesture to the room at large, " _that_ earlier. I..."

I sigh, head on a swivel as I look at him again, dropping my smirk for a more serious look. "John, I can't give you what you're wanting. Not as I am. I don't know how this situation with Nick is going to resolve itself, but I cannot in good conscience try something with you when I'm divided like this. If I were to go after you, I'd want to give you my absolutely undivided attention. I honestly can't do that, right now. It wouldn't be fair to you for me to try. I just... I couldn't do that to you. And maybe there'll be someday when that is a possibility, but I'm not going to try and drag you along in the meantime. None of it is fair."

I turn my eyes forward, training them on my hands once more. "I'm sorry."

Silence follows for a while, as he smokes his cigarette, mentats tin lying untouched on his thigh. Eventually, he stubs his cigarette out, leaning forward to set the ashtray on the table. He plucks up the tin as he sinks back into the couch, lifting the lid and procuring his dose.

I sit quietly contemplating another smoke, waiting for him to give... well, any indication of response. Or a reaction. Anything, really. I can only pick at my fingers for so long, after all.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a sigh of his own. "You don't have to apologize, darlin'; you're tryin' to save me from myself, I get that. Knew it was comin', anyway... it just came sooner than I expected."

The asinine impulse to reply, ' _That's what he said,'_ flashes through my mind, immediately rejected before it can become reality. Instead, I ask, "When _were_ you expecting it?"

He shrugs gently, popping his mentats in and presenting the open tin to me, his brows askew in an offering. I glance at the tin, then at him and shake my head, so he closes it and slides it onto the table. "Probably sometime after you asked him about remembering you. Didn't figure you'd ask him so soon, either. Figured you'd wait until after you found Shaun."

I arch a brow at him in question. "Why would I wait that long? What if whatever he remembered triggers a memory for me? What if it triggers _all_ of them? Wouldn't it be better to actually _remember_ my son, when I go to rescue him?"

John purses his lips into a thoughtful line, head tilted just so. "...Makes sense, yeah. Guess I hadn't thought of it from that angle. Well," he reaches over and pats my knee, smiling far too cheerily, "I'm goin' to check on our gumshoe since Mozzy ain't back yet. Comin' with?"

My quizzical brow remains arched for a few seconds, but I eventually relax and nod. "Of course. John," I grasp his hand before he can pull it away, curling my fingers into his palm gently, "are you gonna be alright?"

The slightly manic smile melts into a more neutral expression, then slowly lifts into a rueful smile as he returns the gentle squeeze of my fingers. "I'll be just fine, darlin', don't you worry."

I give a sardonic snort. "You _know_ I'm going to, anyway."

He smirks, allowing a tiny huff of amusement to rumble up from his throat. "Yeah, I know. C'mon," he jerks his head toward the doors, "let's go see Nicky."

I nod and we stand, leaving the room with quiet haste, hands still linked.

* * *

Short chestnut locks peek out in a particular arrangement from beneath a charcoal fedora which puts the bluest eyes he's ever seen in soft shadow. She strides into his office in carefully polished black pumps and a prim and proper pinstriped gray business suit, complete with a pencil skirt and dark stockings.

She wears less makeup than most, but it's enough to distract from and mostly cover the thin, faded scar that runs somewhat diagonally, just to the left and under her rose petal lips. The scar her ex-husband had given her. It was that scar that kicked him into gear two years ago with showing her how to take care of herself on those streets. The one that had him teaching her the dances of crooks and bastard sons alike and how to protect herself from the worst of them.

Unlike Jenny. At least she had someone protecting her. He'd figured she'd be safe enough, being with him all the time.

Damn it all if he hadn't been proven completely and devastatingly _wrong_ on that count.

Black gloves complete her ensemble, an equally black briefcase nearly as polished as her shoes dangling from her left hand as she takes the last few steps to his desk, right hand outstretched.

"Good morning, Detective Valentine." She begins their momentarily professional dance, setting the mood for the first step of their meeting.

He stands and shakes her proffered hand, taking the lead in their dance. "Mornin', Missus Comstock. Please," he gestures with his free hand to the chair beside her, "have a seat."

The dishy dame smiles a bit tightly, though it's still well within the realm of politeness as she seats herself, setting her briefcase on her lap and tending to the opening of the clasps. "I'm afraid I've come here to collect everything you have on the Eddie Winters case. Jonas told me he'd call ahead, I'm..." she glances up, clearly looking for confirmation, "assuming he did?"

He nods, heaving a small sigh as he resumes his seat, leading them into the second verse of the song. "Yep sure did. Though I have to say, I wish he'd had the guts to come himself to collect, instead of sending you. Not that I'd ever purposely deprive myself of your company, mind."

She smirks at him, a touch of coyness in the expression, a saucy twist to her hips. "I wouldn't dream of depriving you so, Detective. In any case, Jonas... well, he has enough on his plate right now. I'm not going to make excuses beyond that, but I'd be remiss if I didn't at least say that."

Nick purses his lips, giving her a disapproving look, though it's not exactly aimed at her, but more her boss. A somewhat aggressive step in her direction guides their careful waltz. "Yeah, because this case isn't weighing me down at _all_ , naturally."

The look she gives him contains the gentlest reprimand possible, the kindness in her eyes counteracting the prim press of her lips, the tightness in her cheeks. "It's not a competition, Detective. You've both lost loved ones to these respective cases."

His lip curls, voice snarling angrily with his reply, "And yet he's taking this case away from me!"

The woman frowns, leaning forward, hands stilling on the briefcase halfway through opening it. A defensive stance guards her in her follow-up. "It's his _job_ , Nicky! He doesn't have a choice. The court ruled, not him, so blame the defense or the judge, or Winters, but not him! He doesn't deserve it."

He leans back, sighing deeply, bringing his thumb and forefinger up to pinch the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses away to rest on his desk in the process. After a few moments, he straightens his head, though he remains slouching in his chair, sight cast down onto the top of his desk in contemplation. Eventually, he lifts his gaze to meet her slightly pitying one. "Fine," he allows, grudgingly, "I still don't have to be happy about it."

She shakes her head. "Always so stubborn, Nicky. That stubborn streak is gonna land you in hot water one day, mark my words." With a sigh, she finishes opening her briefcase, producing a thin sheaf of printed forms, a pen following them onto his desk. She takes the lead now, stepping ahead and spinning just out of his reach. "Let's get this over with; I'd rather not spend my entire time here dealing with unpleasant business if it's all the same to you."

He nods glumly and stands, sliding his glasses back on and trundling over to the filing cabinet that contains the Winters folder. Pulling the drawer, he thumbs through at a languid pace, as though he actually has to search for it, despite knowing exactly where it is. His reluctant dawdling notwithstanding, he relatively quickly makes his way to the folder, plucking it from the drawer with two hands spread wide across its girth. He pushes the drawer closed with his elbow, holding the folder close to his chest and supporting it to keep things from spilling as he makes his way back to the desk. "Here you are, everything I have on the bastard." He sets it carefully down on the desk, close to her little stack of forms, then sits in his chair again. "I hope Jonas chokes on it."

"Nicky!" comes her immediate chastisement, "I thought we just established—"

He holds his hand up to interrupt her. "Alright, alright, fine, I'm sorry." He drags his pack from next to the glass ashtray, offering her one, taking one of his own when she refuses. "It just grates me," he supplies, as he lights his cigarette, "The man who killed the woman I loved goes free, no consequences, no justice. Just because he decides to squeal on the other families. I get it, it's a big break, but Christ, Shana..." he lets his brow settle in the fingers of his supportive hand as he leans against his desk. "He _killed_ Jenny. And he's _walking_."

He looks up as he feels a soft, warm grasp curl around his free wrist, left laying out on the desk without direction. Her still-gloved fingers grasp the contours of his wrist, gently, but firmly. Her eyes are full of compassion when he wrenches his own up to look into them. She smiles softly, slinking back into the fold of his arms, giving him back the lead.

"I know this isn't what either of you deserves, Nicky. But Jenny wouldn't have wanted you to get as twisted up into this case as you have. She'd have _expected_ you to," she corrects, with a slight smile that falls as she continues, "but she wouldn't have _wanted_ you to. Maybe... maybe Jonas is doin' you a favor on this one, even though I know it doesn't seem like it right now." He sees her focus flitting over his features. "You're wearin' yourself thin, Nicky. You're lettin' this case eat you up from the inside out, and it's just gonna chew you up and spit you out. You know it. I know it. She'd have known it."

He grinds his molars together for a few seconds, jaw muscles ticking over bone.

She squeezes his wrist gently, then retreats from him and their dance, gingerly lifting the Winters folder up and into her briefcase, then beginning the laborious process of checking its contents against her printed list.

They sit in relative silence, as she works, while he smokes. They dance alone, separate, subdued.

Eventually, finally, she reaches the end of her list. She points to the last item on it, looking to him. "Where's this holotape?"

He peers down at the item she points to, reading the lettering upside-down. "Ah. One moment..." he slides his chair back and opens his top right drawer, doing a bit of digging before his fingers land on the proper tape. "Here we are." He produces it and slides it over to her.

Shana picks it up and sets it in her case, nodding once at her list, using her pen to mark tiny X's next to the lines he's meant to slap his John Hancock on top of. She spins the paper toward him, mimicking the way he spins her now. "Sign where I've marked."

He complies after a few moments of procrastination, pulling her back to him; his signature tight, angular, the motions of his hand sharp and jagged.

Something equally sharp and jagged tears through the moment, interrupting the memory and their dance with a distinctly monotone voice. "Your session has been prematurely ended by an Administrative Operator. Thank you for using the Memory Lounger™. Have a pleasant day." He stumbles, forgets the steps, his partner disappearing as he comes to a halt at the sudden interruption.

The voice is almost drowned out by the white noise static that always follows these sessions, though the sound seems somewhat louder than usual this time. He makes a mental note to lower the sensitivity of his sensor net. Again. Slowly, he remembers the steps to this dance, to this new beat he's been stepping to for the past sixty years—not the tempo of a heartbeat, but the rhythm of the coolant pumping through his system.

"There we are. Welcome back, Nicholas. How do you feel?" The accented, sonorous voice of Dr. Amari greets him, just as the static finally fades.

He looks himself over groggily and runs a diagnostic, which comes back as green across the board as it ever does. "Seem to be alright, Doc. I'm guessing the repairs were a success, then?"

She nods. "I believe so, yes. Though, I could only patch so much of your skin. We need to find some replacement panels for you that will accept your sensor net. Or... attempt to make them. _Something_. You're far too exposed, as you are. Something must be done, and _soon_ , Nicholas. Perhaps your new partner would be willing to help you find the parts you need?"

He sighs. It's an old argument between them. He's been refusing or evading her demands that he protect his innards for... well, close to twenty years or so, now.

"If you don't talk to her about it, _I_ will. This must end, Nicholas," she insists, cornering him with her argument. Her dance with him has always been more of a solo act, a flamenco dancer stomping out a furious beat to drown out his objections.

He lifts his hands in surrender. "Fine. I'll ask her if she wants to."

She nods. "Good. You should tell her about this memory, as well. The lock on her own memories may just get a bit of a jostling from this. Possibly enough of one to shake something loose."

He dips his head in assent. "She asked me about it, just before the attack." He rubs his left hand over his face slowly, sighing as he lets it fall back to his side. "I do plan to tell her soon."

"Tell me what?" interjects a familiar voice.

He looks up and there she stands as if the past two-hundred or so years hadn't passed at all, leaning against the doorway, tilting her head in inquiry at him with a tiny, curious smile painted onto those rose petals she calls lips. She's already begun their dance anew, even though she doesn't remember enough of it to know when she should take the lead yet.

Her hair is messier, makeup much less pronounced; as if she hasn't had access to a mirror since she woke up. Her outfit is that same vault suit she'd gone down in, and a pair of boots she keeps too polished and clean for your average wastelander. Her side iron is strapped to her thigh, the shotgun holstered at her back; her pack carried by John, who stands like a gargoyle guardian at her side. Though, against what isn't exactly clear, by his stance and expression. Could be, he's not entirely sure, himself.

Her scar is more pronounced without the concealer, reminding him sharply of their early interactions, centuries back. No, _no_ , of her and _Nick's_ interactions, not _theirs_. _Damn, get ahold of yourself_.

"Rather sure of yourself, are you not, General?" intervenes Dr. Amari, leveling a mildly reprimanding look at Shana.

"I... well I—" she falters, unsteady. He's yet to see her so off-balance as she is now. Her steps falter and she stomps painfully on her own toes, ungainly, but recovers as smoothly as she can, "I suppose that was a bit cocky, wasn't it?" She winces. "Sorry."

He decides to save her from herself and aid in her recovery. "It was, but in this case, you were right. We need to talk and soon."

The good Doctor peers back at him, a question in her eyes. He nods at her, before returning his focus to the woman across the room from him.

She's nodding, shifting to stand on her own power, fully recovered from her fumbling. It's only now that he can see the hole in her suit, it having been inadvertently hidden by her semi-slumped stance before. Noting his attention to it, her hand covers it almost abashedly, eyes seeking Amari out. "Doctor, am I cleared from this injury, or are you going to make me stick to a bed for another week?"

Amari purses her lips, one corner of her mouth quirking in mild disapproval. "I recommend another day of rest, at the least. Preferably two, or at best three. The stimpaks have done most of the work they are going to do, but your body will need time to adjust to the new scarring. You may have some difficulties in the coming weeks. I'd rather you stayed nearby, in case there are complications."

"Well, that's rather convenient, isn't it dear?" Interrupts Irma as she saunters into the room, the Watchghoul Mozzy trailing behind her, "Since the good General will be staying above us for the foreseeable future."

Both Nick and Amari look between Irma and Shana, seeking confirmation.

"Is that so?" Amari asks first. "Well, I can't say I disagree; her character reference certainly isn't needed." She smiles at Shana. "You'd be quite welcome to lease our little room, General Stewart." She turns to look at him, a slight smirk on her lips. "Perhaps you'd like to give her a tour of the place, Nicholas? You've been up there nearly as much as we have, thanks to that unfortunate case of yours that led you there. Irma can retrieve the elevator keys for the General."

He had yet to climb his way out of the open memory lounger, but he finds himself already moving by the time she finishes speaking, almost without his even bidding his rusted limbs to move. "You sure, Doc?" He looks at her, his expression a bit sheepish. "It's your apartment to show off, after all."

A wise smile creeps onto her face. "I think I can allow it, just this once. Unlike her, you are as recovered as you can be. Do keep her from injuring herself again in the process, though, won't you?"

A half smirk affixes itself to the corner of his mouth as he slides his view to Shana. "I think I can manage that." His half of their dance rekindles as if he'd reached his hand out in waiting for her to take it.

"Good. Off with you two, then. I have work to do." She shoos the lot of them from her basement lab, then straightens her lab coat and turns to the terminal nearby.

Shana turns, the hand that he's just noticed is linked with John's squeezing and releasing his gently. "I'll catch up with you later? Go be our brilliant Mayor for a bit. I'm sure Fahrenheit would appreciate it." She smiles at John with that soft way she has, the smile that few but the coldest of hearts could refuse.

If John's the least bit disappointed, he doesn't show it. "Alright, darlin'. Don't forget to swing by and get me when you're done. We'll all have a drink at The Third Rail to celebrate your new digs." John leans forward, presses a kiss to her right cheek, then tosses a nod at Nick, handing off her pack to the synth and departing, Mozzy in tow.

She watches them go, then turns to him, a crooked half-smile tugging one corner of her mouth upwards as she peers up at him. Taking a step to his side, she threads her fingers into the crook of his right elbow. "So, tell me about this case that drove you to my new apartment."

And so she unwittingly slots her hand back into his, returning to her place in their dance after two centuries apart.

He hopes it's not for the last time.


	14. Chapter 14

He watches as she sits with her knees pressed to her chest in the corner the balcony's railing creates, her half-lit cigarette dangling from her fingers, the question burdening her soul trying to claw its way out through her eyes. Yet, she persists in her denial of it. Instead, she asks after the details of this now solved case of his, curiosity for this overriding anything else in her features.

So, he tells her. He lets her avoid the question that will expose them both because things like this are his weakness, the chink in his armor. Send him into battle, put him in the middle of a shootout, give him a case to work, he'll go off and do what he has to, without hesitation. But this?

In this, he is a coward.

So he settles his rusty limbs next to her—leaving enough space between them to be proper—and he talks. He gives her every sordid detail of the case—one of the many of its kind that he deals with, a runaway husband—explains how he tracked the man, how the woman he was sleeping with had been the one to give him up, once Nick told her of the man's family. How he'd practically dragged the man back to Diamond City by his ear, handing him over to his wife and three children like the fleshy bag of garbage he was.

He finishes his tale, then looks to her, watching her with a tiny amused smile as she tries to relight the cigarette that's long gone out, guttered against the wind and died, thanks to her inattention. He reaches for his own lighter, shielding it from the wind with his still whole hand and sparking the flint with his right, holding it out for her.

She blinks at the gesture, as though it surprises her, but leans forward and accepts the flame he offers her all the same. "Thanks," she says, around the filter of her cigarette, then plucks it from betwixt her lips after a soft draw—blowing the resulting puff of smoke off to the side, away from him, apparently thinking it would somehow bother him.

A pregnant pause ensues, in which he lights his own cigarette, then closes his zippo and pockets it; resting his elbows on his uplifted knees and allowing the brim of his hat to shield his eyes from the setting sun, as he stares a hole in the wood decking of what's soon to be her balcony.

Slowly, he becomes aware of something she's doing with her hands—holding them out from her body, past her resting elbows, taut, purposely shaking them as if... as if she's signing that she's nervous. She stops abruptly, looking like she's almost forcing herself to, hands clenching into fists and relaxing. She takes a deep drag from her cigarette in what may very well be a bid to distract herself. When he focuses on her ocean blues, they're still resting their sight on her hands, until she notices where his attention now lies.

"What?" she asks, not-quite-indignant tone tempered by the actual curiosity shining in her eyes.

He tilts his head, gives her a thoughtful look that ends with his focusing on her hands again, nodding toward them, before peering back at her eyes. He transfers his cigarette to his left hand, then lifts his right fingertips to his temple, brushing down from it to sign a 'y', then points at her and repeats her nervous gesture, completing a _'why are you nervous?'_ sign.

Her eyes widen, jaw dropping slightly as she gapes at him.

He smiles kindly, taking another drag from his smoke and leaning against the railing behind him while he waits for her to gather herself back together.

She turns, staring ahead and drawing another hefty cloud of smoke from her cigarette, a tightly contained cough escaping her this time; her lungs not putting up with her crap any longer. After she slowly exhales—off to the side, again, despite him smoking right beside her—she turns her head in the direction of his hands, now resting back where they were, before he'd signed to her. Her eyes slowly rove over them both, like this is the first time she's really had a chance to look at them properly; which, for all he knows, actually is the case. After a while, just before he gives into the impulse to pocket hands that must seem alien to her, _other_ , she looks away, apparently satisfied with her study.

Finally, her voice pierces the silence of the long moment, "Because I'm not sure I want to know the truth."

He hums thoughtfully at her answer, nodding. "Understandable, in your case. Though I have to say, I wasn't foolin' when I said it wasn't a complete memory—not entirely, anyhow." Ah hell, may as well just tell her and get it over with. "I remember knowing you, I remember... things about you, but not everything. What I do remember might not even tell you anything you need or want to know."

She shrugs inelegantly, a lax gesture that somehow suits her, as she is now. "It doesn't really matter, does it? As it sits, I'm a blank slate. I can write whatever I wish to, on that slate." She points her cigarette at him fleetingly. "Until you begin to write my real history on it."

He shakes his head. "Do you really want to know, then? Who you are now... I've seen the good you do, Shana. The people in Goodneighbor respect you, enough to welcome you with open arms. That's no small feat with this lot. They might seem like chem-addled low-lives; hell, a lot of them are, but they're all slow to trust and rightfully so." He indicates her with a pointed finger, briefly. "And yet, they trust you."

Shana nods, sure of herself. "I want to know. If what you remember can somehow trigger a memory, or... anything, really... if I could remember my _son_ ," she pauses, taking the last drag of her cigarette and snuffing it out on the iron railing, "it would be worth it." She looks at him, eyes searching his. "How much can I have truly changed? The personality I have now is what came about all on its own, Nick. Was I really so different, before?"

He gazes right back at her, lips gently pursed in thought. He draws in a breath, sighing it out steadily. "Alright. As long as you're sure. I'll talk to Amari about using a pair of loungers for an hour or so." He rubs what's left of the skin on his jawline, a human gesture left over from the old Nick. "Tomorrow, though. We've all been through enough for today."

She nods, almost absently, gaze cast out through the bars of the railing, the setting sun speckling amber glints of light onto her eyes like a dusting of gold in the sea of her irises. "Yeah, we have, at that." She wraps her arms around her legs, hugging them tightly to her chest, chin resting on one knee. She stays like that for a long moment, watching some invisible place in the distance. Abruptly, she lifts her head, turning to him with that slight crease between her brows that makes him want to reach out and smoother it from existence. "How did we get from Hagen to Goodneighbor, Nick? Wouldn't Sanctuary or... hell, Diamond City have been closer?"

He clears his throat gently, a slow nod answering her secondary questions. "Yeah I thought it was a little odd too, but John insisted after I assured him there was nothing else we could do to stabilize ya. Something about trusting Doc Amari over Doc Sun. Not really sure why, I've never had any issue with Doctor Sun—other than his bedside manner... or lack thereof, I should say. Anyway, he also cited you sayin' this was home to ya, so I found myself out-voted. Seein' as I don't exactly get tired, it didn't really matter how far I had to carry ya, so I—"

"What?!" she interrupts him, eyes wide with obvious panic. "You... you _carried_ me?"

He offers up a slightly confounded smirk at her shock. "Well yeah, how'd you expect ya got here?" he reasons, hoping to calm her with his even tone. "John couldn't carry you all that way, though he tried. Made it as far as the Mass Pike Interchange before his arms started to shake too much to keep ya. Complained pretty bitterly that he didn't have any buffout on him to finish the haul." He snorts and shakes his head, making his disapproval clear. "Anyway, I took over after that. It's fortunate you've been clearing the way so steadily over the past month or so, really. We didn't have any trouble getting here, other than a few bloat flies and a small feral pack along the way."

He watches with a slight smile as a peachy blush colors her creamy complexion, seeing the way her throat flexes gently as she clears it nervously. "Well, thank you for bringing me home, Nick." Her voice is thick as she says it. "It's nice to know you... you guys have my back."

He shrugs, an easy smile forming along with it as he stubs his own smoke out. "You've got ours too, doll. It's a two-way street here."

She nods softly, her blush slowly fading as a crooked smile splays itself onto her lips. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She gestures toward the glass door that leads to the apartment interior. "I don't..." She huffs a small, almost pained laugh. "I don't really know what to do with this place. It's too much space. My stuff would take up that little corner room in there, if that." She shrugs, resting her cheek on one knee as she sweeps her view over the interior space. "Probably see about turning that into a bathroom, though."

He arches a brow at the sudden change in topic, but follows the direction of her gaze into the building, straightening one leg before him and sighing softly as he nods his agreement. "Seems like a good use of the space. Maybe..." he tilts his head, eying the small apartment with a critical look. "Could put a desk there," he points to the far wall, gesturing to more locations as he goes along, "maybe a little cooking area to the right, against the other window. A small workbench for your guns and armor probably wouldn't be amiss, if you could find one compact enough. Maybe a little bubbler by the elevator door." He shrugs, turning back to her with a smirk before he sees her expression.

She's outright staring at him; something like appreciative wonder in her eyes. "That... that's actually _perfect_ , Nick. Christ, why haven't _you_ leased the place? You've got much better ideas for this than I do." She chuckles, finally releasing him from her fixed attention and letting it roam over the apartment once more, though she seems much more excited by the entire prospect, now.

He hastily stands when she reaches for the railing, offering a hand up before she can get a good grip. She blinks at his somewhat jumpy offer, then smiles and slips her left hand into what he suddenly realizes is his right he's proffered, without thinking. He curls his fingers as gently as he can, cupping hers as he helps pull her up. She winces as she comes to a stand, though her left hand stays where it is, waylaying his concerns that he'd been the one to hurt her. Her right hand goes to her still-healing injury, prodding it gently, testing the area with searching fingertips.

"I think Doctor Amari might've been understating my recovery time a bit." She smirks at him a tad ruefully, still not removing her hand from his now more naturally lowered one. She tips her head to indicate the door, leading them toward it with a few steps that he finds himself following almost automatically.

"Could always get you a room at the Rexford for tonight, turn in early and let you rest?" he offers a voice of reason, as he passes through the door behind her.

She chuckles and tosses a smirk at him over her shoulder as she turns to look at him. "I've already got one there. Paid up a week ahead of time with Clair, before I left. I'll talk to the good Doctor before we go to meet John, but I think a night of celebration is due. I'll just go easy on the hooch."

He eyes her carefully. "Have you partied with John before?"

She arches a brow at him, shaking her head once just before she answers, "No. Why, are you going to tell me goin' easy on the hooch'll be impossible?"

He grimaces, a slight nod following. "Yeah, he's what you might call a bad influence, especially once he gets into his cups. He'll be doing his best to make sure everyone has what he sees as 'a good time', especially you."

She narrows her eyes at him, a hint of a smirk pulling at the left corner of her mouth. "That so? And what makes you think he'd pick me out of the crowd, Detective?"

He blinks, tilting his head curiously at the way she's addressing him. Almost as if... "You mean to tell me you don't know how he feels about you, doll? I would've thought that'd be clear, by now."

Her expression falls from lightly teasing, to something like regret. "Yeah, I know." She sighs deeply, shakes her head and looks away. "I did my best to let him down easy. He acts like he's fine with it. I _hope_ he really is."

He frowns in confusion. "Let him... you turned him down?"

She nods, looking at him like the answer's so obvious he should've already known. "Yeah, of course. I mean..." she heaves another sigh, shaking her head a few times. "It's not that he wouldn't be my type, but..."

He waits to see if she'll finish her sentence, but when she doesn't, he fills in the blanks as best he knows how. "No, I... I understand. Makes sense you wouldn't be willing to get tangled up in something like that, with everything else that's goin' on in your life."

She shakes her head again, looking at him with reticent patience in her mien. "It's not that, Nick. Though, I can see where you're comin' from with that, all too easily." He feels light pressure from her hand in his; like she's squeezing his metal digits for a moment. "There's ah... well..." Her cheeks get that peachy dusting of a blush all over again, as she looks away abashedly. "There's someone _else_ ," she blurts, turning her eyes back up to his like a startled doe—as if she'd surprised herself with the admission. Maybe she had.

It certainly doesn't surprise him much. A dame like her'd have plenty of admirers to choose from, no doubt. He can't help but feel just a tiny bit sad for John, though. It's beyond obvious the man has it bad. "Well, that's too bad for John, then. And good for whoever managed to catch your eye." He nods, adding a little smile to the mix. "I'd say he's a lucky man." He slowly lets her hand drop, realizing that despite her tacitly allowing the touch, he should've broken it himself, long ago.

He does watch, though, as her expression slowly turns from one of simple surprise to one full of doubt, like a flower losing its sunlight and shrinking in the shade. "I... yeah, maybe he would be."

He frowns, cocking his head curiously at her response. "Maybe? Why wouldn't he be?"

She shrugs, shaking her head and hugging herself gently. "I... it doesn't matter. He'll figure it out, eventually. I hope." She scowls at the floor for a few seconds, then seems to shake herself and straightens, plastering a smile on her lips that doesn't reach her eyes. "Anyway, I'm gonna go see Doctor Amari. Feel free to come along, or go do your own thing." She waves him off, keeping up with that not-quite-there-smile as she turns and aims herself at the elevator.

He follows her, though he watches her like a hawk as she enters the small space before him, keeping an eye on her as he enters. He turns and looks ahead at the closing doors as he inquires, "What's wrong, doll? Was it something I said?"

That yanks her attention straight to his face, where it remains for a long moment, his eyes holding her own as he looks to her. After a time, she abruptly rips her gaze away, frowning and planting her focus on the doors. She hasn't picked a floor yet. Instead, she stands there, clenching and unclenching her small fists. Finally, she reaches out and selects the lobby.

Halfway to the ground, she presses the emergency stop button and turns to him, though her eyes are still lowered as she speaks, "He wouldn't be, because I don't think he knows that I..." She looks up at him now, then somewhere over his left shoulder. "I don't think he knows I'm sweet on him. It's... a strange case, really." She bites her lip distractedly, shaking her head once. "There's no reason he'd even know, honestly." She glances at his features, gaze flitting over his various whole and ruined parts alike, before falling utterly from him to the floor. "Just a _feeling_ left over from a memory I can't place."

She snorts, a self-deprecating smile tugging its way onto her rose petal lips. "Don't mind me, Nick. My head's a box of rocks right now. Talkin' about this will get me nowhere but blues town, in the end."

"Hey now, none of that." He brings his left hand up, resting the edge of his forefinger under her chin and gently lifting until she looks back up at him. "I'd never say, or even _think_ that about you, so don't you go sayin' things like that about yourself. If your boy hasn't figured out you're interested, then that's his problem, not yours. Got it?" He waits until she slowly nods against his finger, though her eyes convey none of the agreement her head indicates. "You've got nothin to worry about. He'll come around, I promise ya. Maybe he just needs to hear the truth from you."

At this, she lifts her chin out of his grasp, breaking eye contact and slapping the lobby button again, her cheeks blazing a deep peach color. She shakes her head sharply, pursing her lips, then licking them; her response breathy, soft, "It's not that simple, Nick."

He weights his head to the side, confusion evident in the pinching of his brow. "Well, sure it is. Some guys are just a little oblivious, that's all. Give 'em enough of a hint, they'll get the rest of the picture, soon enough."

She looks up at him like he'd _burned_ her somehow, like the words he'd spoken were brands instead of the simple phrases of encouragement he'd meant them as.

The elevator dings for the lobby. She escapes before the doors are even finished sliding open. He stares after her for a moment, then shakes himself out of his stupor and follows her. _What's this dame's game?_ He hadn't meant anything by what he said. He'd just been tryin' to help her out a bit—is that so wrong?

Pursuing her into the Memory Den yields the sight of her blue suit disappearing down the stairs. Irma pins him with a concerned stare that he does his best to ignore, doffing his hat hurriedly as he passes her to chase after Shana, his concern welling high in his mind. By the time his feet hit the bottom landing, she's already beginning a conversation with the Doc. He skids to a halt before either of them catch sight of him, opting to listen in for a few seconds before he makes himself known. It's underhanded, but he needs a better clue about what's going on here.

The conversation turns out to be utterly innocuous. She mentions the twinge of pain she'd felt, the Doc assures her it's normal, that it's just her body adjusting to the new scar tissue, that it'd settle in a week or so.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

 _Then why did she run?_

If she hadn't meant to have a private conversation with Amari, what was the point of her disappearing act?

Well. Now he feels like a heel for listening in and suspecting something shady on her end. _Fantastic._

Huffing a quietly disappointed sigh, he turns and makes his way up the stairs, doing his best to avoid the squeaky ones.

* * *

Observing things from a distance has always been his style.

The ghoulish Mayor of Goodneighbor? An occasional, subtle nod of respect and at _least_ five feet of distance at all times.

The Synth Detective, Nick Valentine, well known across the Commonwealth as pretty much the only out-of-the-closet (As it were.) synth in existence? An intermittent collaboration or two, maybe a message here and there for one of his clients who also happened to be a synth or an actual agent. Also, at least five feet of distance; though, for a ... _different_ set of reasons.

Brotherhood of Steel? A cubic _mile_ of distance, if at all possible.

This General, though? Her, he's curious about. Enough to keep a close watch on her. Maybe even enough to bend his rule of keeping a distance and close in once in awhile, just to find out what he might hear, first-hand.

After all, she's been making so many waves in the Commonwealth lately, it's not like he could ignore her, even if he wanted to.

Which he doesn't.

And he's been listening, _very_ carefully.

Settlements, popping up all over the place, well defended and well supplied; a calculated risk every time a new one is established, but one she takes repeatedly and consistently makes good on. Hundreds of people have homes now that are well-fortified and self-sufficient, thanks to her and her friends.

Speaking of which... The Minutemen are becoming a force to be reckoned with, a force for good that now has frequent patrols all over the ruins of good old Boston. There's even talk they may be retaking the _Castle_ soon, of all things. He knows for a fact there's a mirelurk queen and her entire brood nesting there, but he thinks if anyone could do it, _she could_.

Even the little man isn't below her notice. Becoming the Silver Shroud and taking out an entire gang of bully raiders had been a stroke of genius that did nothing but bolster her legend amongst the people. Saving the ghoul that got her to do it in the first place had earned her more than a few fans.

Not to mention, there's the massive swath of blood and chaos she cuts through the Boston ruins on a regular basis, keeping regular trade routes clear of threats and allowing scavvers and traders alike safe passage through the wreckage.

Then to top it all off, she's gone and outdone herself.

 _Kellogg's dead_.

He confirmed it himself.

Had to, for his report back to the boss. Used up a few stealth boys making sure he didn't get hit in that place as he followed the General's trail of destruction on in. Not that he didn't trust her abilities, or those of her stalwart companions, mind. But she seemed rather... _single-minded_ during the whole ordeal, which did nothing to put him at ease that she'd cleared the entire place, as she usually does.

Fully cleared or not, there, in the room mostly full of busted terminals, lay the body of the Railroad's most wanted. Upon closer examination, it was obvious someone had tinkered with the implants he'd once had hooked into his head and various other body parts, the claret trailing lazily away from where cybernetics were once spliced into a man who really wasn't very human at all, anymore.

More plasma formed a puddle nearby, almost directly in front of where Kellogg must've stood, just before he keeled over. Seems either the Mayor or the General had been injured.

He'd look into that later. Wasn't enough blood to really start worrying.

Turned out, it had been the General's wound, one her suit had been burnt through on _both_ sides to evidence. _Yikes._ That one actually warranted a lifted brow when he saw it. He can't see for sure from this distance, but it's got to be one hell of an impressive scar. It's a bit surprising she's up and walking about, already. Must be on some good drugs. Or she's just that damned tough.

Shit, he'd be milking that for all it was worth.

Come to think of it, he has, before.

Good times. Many Fancy Lads snack cakes were had that week.

More than worth the disgruntled looks Des leveled at him for a month after.

Regardless, he watches, as the old synth follows her into the Memory Den, seeming rather concerned for their heroine. Had she disrupted the healing process by ignoring the good Doctor's commands and not going easy on life for a few days?

He waits for a few minutes, watching the red double doors in his periphery. All too soon, the synth dick reappears, his features troubled, immediately pulling out a smoke and parking himself by the door as he lights it.

 _Interesting_.

He hadn't been in there long enough to do much of anything, really, so why was he already back up here and stress smoking?

Deacon crosses his arms, settling in for a bit of a long stakeout.

He'll get answers, one way or another.


	15. Chapter 15

The way is surprisingly clear, once they come to the edge of the ruin that was once Boston.

There'd been plenty of trouble up until then; every possible mongrel, yao guai, feral, and super mutant imaginable had accosted them along the way, not to mention the six or so bridges where they'd been held up by raiders trying to extort a toll fee from unwary travelers.

They were not unwary travelers.

Those raiders had died quickly, one or two shotgun blasts a piece; efficient, clean deaths, despite the cruor left behind in their passing.

Lynn would've been proud.

Instead, her widowed husband at his side merely shook his head, wiping off his bloodied knife and moving on with a heavy sigh.

Following Quinn all the way from Megaton had been a slow, careful journey from the Capital Wasteland, one the trader claimed he'd made many times over the years. Seems he hadn't just been spinning a yarn, after all.

Charon peers back at the two civilians behind him; Gob alternating between staring in wonder at the decaying glory of Boston all around them and nervously peering about, mindful of anything that might wish to hit him. Nova does a better job of concealing her wonder, but it's still more than evident—in the number of times she trips over things—exactly how little attention she's paying to her feet.

Getting them free of Moriarty and convincing them to go along with his previous employer's final wishes had been a task left solely to him, one he took some small pride in—pride she'd taught him that he deserved to have, no matter his training.

The folded paper he keeps in his shirt's pocket is the only tangible evidence that he'd ever had an employer named Lynn—that he'd ever been treated kindly by any of the endless stream of employers he'd had over his two centuries of existence. He never lets that paper slip from his awareness. The person might be gone, but the memory, the spirit of her, the effects of her existence... that will likely never leave him.

The little bit of paper—her will, her final orders to him, initially written years ago, added to many times, but only acted upon now—is the entire reason he's put up with having such a large entourage travel with them. They needed a guide, that was certain, but the civilians?

That... that was all Lynn's doing. Lynn, who'd spent long nights by a campfire in conversation with the ghoul they're trailing through the wastes; Lynn, who'd searched long and hard for the diamond in the rough she'd eventually found, not long before her life had ended.

The woman—for that's what she was, young or no, she'd always had an old soul. One look in those eyes told you everything you would ever need to know about her. One look in those eyes told you that you were safe with her, no matter what—was exactly who the Capital Wastes had needed, precisely when it had needed her. And it had treated her the same way it treated everyone.

It had used up, spat out, then destroyed its only savior.

The night before she succumbed to the radiation, she'd reached a trembling hand toward his, grimacing at the pain even that small movement had caused her. He'd watched her keenly in this rare moment of her final day's lucidity, listened to the whispered instructions she'd murmured into his ruined ear and followed them to the letter, as he always had. In a small compartment in her left leather bracer on the floor near her bed, he found that small bit of paper. When he looked back up at his employer, she'd fallen back into the sleep coma she'd been under for much of her treatment—her final words to him a smiling goodbye.

She never woke back up. Not... properly, at least.

So, here he is, trudging all the way into the ruined city, ambling along the broken asphalt of the old Commonwealth of Boston; a sullen Butch DeLoria at his side, their guide, Quinn at the fore, the two now ex-slaves Gob and Nova bringing up the rear.

It's an odd party, one that's caused no end of troubles along the way, but they were her wishes and he will carry them out until every last word on the page is finished.

They're nearly there. Just a few more days and it will all be over. In a few more days, a week tops, he'll have a new employer.

* * *

I've never been offered so many drugs in my life. Well, that I know of, at least.

Mentats, some kind of mutated marijuana, med-x, daytripper—hell, John even pulled out the x-cell and daddy-o stash, trying to tempt me.

Through it all, Nick is right here, my guardian angel watching over my wellbeing, keeping me from giving into peer pressure—and also keeping me on the edge of a knife of tension I don't want to admit is there... nor that I actually half enjoy so much.

I do my best to ignore it all, taking slow, steady sips of the whiskey in my glass and firmly staying seated for as much of the night as I can, which, considering how much John wants to dance—he even gets up by himself a few times, to boogie to a few of the faster tunes, played when Mags isn't up doing one of her numbers—is quite the feat. I'm pretty certain the _only_ reason he doesn't push me harder to dance is my injury.

 _I guess injury is no reason in his mind to lay off the chems_.

No, it's _quite_ the opposite, apparently.

"It'll make ya feel better, simple as that," he tells me, sat across from me in languid repose, unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers, forgotten, on the opposite couch. "I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think it'd help ya."

Much as I'm curious to try one or two of the things he offers, I just can't justify it, until I'm fully recovered. Nick seems to agree, my holding out drawing a tiny smile from his lips, every time I shake my head at one of John's offers.

The whole situation is... well, let's just say, I'll be quite happy to make it to my room for some probably frequently interrupted sleep at the Rexford, later tonight.

 _What I wouldn't give for my good old Sal and a fresh pair of batteries, while I'm at it_.

Wait... _what_?

I nearly spurt my whiskey shot from my nose at the realization of what I've just— _remembered, I remembered something! It's a fucking_ _ **vibrator**_ _, but it's an actual memory!_ At the last moment, I barely manage to compose myself with a cough to cover for my slip-up, though the back of my sinuses burn just enough to make my eyes water. I hastily hand my drink off to Nick to watch over and excuse myself to the restroom upstairs.

Only, I never make it there.

At the top of the stairs, already mostly recovered, I'm greeted by not one ghoul, but _four—_ one of them absolutely _massive_ in size, with an equally large gun stock just discernible over his shoulder—alongside one visible human with carefully slicked and styled hair, wearing a leather jacket over— _holy shit, another vaultie?_ A quick peek at his wrist confirms his pip-boy's existence, though the obvious differences in the models make me tilt my head in curious assessment.

Quelling the tech geek in me for a moment in favor of something that had already caught my eye, which I'm just now allowing my attention to rest on, I focus on the other ghouls in the man's entourage, noting the not-so-subtle differences between them and the other ghouls I've become accustomed to. _What the hell happened to these guys?_ The peeling, leathery skin, withered appearance, changed eyes, and the smell I'm used to, but these guys have... their muscles are literally _showing_ , I can see the cords of blood-filled tissue moving as they do—holy _fuck!_ _What kind of radiation were they exposed to?_

Finally, a human woman with a shock of light auburn hair steps out from behind the grouping, breaking the spell of fascination that's been cast on me by these new ghouls. "You gonna stare all night, or let us pass?"

I gasp softly, realizing my idiocy and utter lack of tact, stepping aside as I make my apologies, eyes decidedly averted while I mentally berate myself for my misstep. "S-sorry for staring, it's a b-bad habit of mine, in general," I babble, as I gesture down the steps, trying to plaster on a kind smile while I glance back at her and over the others quickly. "Grill and b-bar's downstairs; ask for Codsworth if you're hungry, Charlie if you're thirsty."

She nods at me, apparently mollified. "Yeah, thanks, I guess."

They're all about to pass, when suddenly the tallest ghoul falls backward, promptly bowled over and pounced on by... _Dogmeat?_

"Shit! I'm sorry, he's never—" I start to apologize, shocked at Dogmeat's behavior until I realize the massive ghoul is staring at my dog in a mix of awe and joy that seems somehow squashed by a face clearly unused to either emotion.

Dogmeat has proceeded onto licking the ghoul's hands and face, whichever he can reach easiest at any given moment.

The man standing beside the ghoul is doing his best to moderate a laugh that looks to be tempered by sadness. "Well, I'll be damned. Never thought I'd see _this_ mutt again."

Dogmeat proceeds to shove his nose in the man's crotch.

The man jerks his hips back reflexively, shoving Dogmeat from the embarrassing situation, but leaving a few small pats on the dog's head anyway. "Whoa there! Yeah, yeah, how ya doin', boy?"

Dogmeat yips softly then turns and jumps over the small hill of ghoul he's created, to come sit by my side, well-mannered as you please. He nuzzles his head under my hand and I automatically start scratching behind his ears. A short, gentle whuff from him apparently answers the man's question.

The slightly somber man looks at me, seemingly for the first time, a hint of that evaluation John regularly gives me coloring his once-over of my person. He nods, once he's ostensibly satisfied, then points off-handedly to Dogmeat. "That one's taken up with you, now? Must be somethin' more to you than starin' at strangers and stumblin' over your words, then." He glances at Dogmeat, then looks back up to me, apparently making his mind up in that instant. He steps—very carefully, I notice—over the large ghoul's legs, just as the ghoul begins to shift and get up. The man extends a hand, once he's in front of me. "Butch DeLoria. What's your name?"

I blink at the hand for a moment, then quickly grasp it and shake firmly, lifting my gaze up with a fairly relieved, if still reserved smile at this Butch person. "Shana. Shana Stewart, ah... General of the Commonwealth Minutemen, I guess," I add, somewhat reluctantly; waving it off, even as I admit to it. _May as well get it out of the way now; they'll find out, eventually._

He frowns at me, cocks his head. "Commonwealth Minutemen? They some gang or somethin'?"

I glance over his shoulder at the tall ghoul as he rises to his full height, rolling his eyes at the man's comment. I smirk and return my attention to Butch, gently removing my hand from his. "Ah, sure, I suppose; though, I'd more call it a militia. It's people banding together to protect settlers and traders, among the Commonwealth settlements and along trade routes. You might've noticed the roads were at least mostly clear on the way in? That's us. We _try_ to help out, anyway. Where you guys from? That doesn't sound like a Boston accent."

Butch smirks slightly. I'm starting getting the impression that this guy must've been a hell of a charmer and probably a bully, at one point. Something's got his goat right now, though. Not sure what. Before I can make heads or tails of it, Ham the ham-fisted interrupts our conversation.

"Hey! Clear out or I'll clear ya out. Either get downstairs or get out, you're blockin' the entrance. It's a damn fire hazard."

The massive ghoul looks at the much smaller bouncer, lifting a single, unimpressed brow at him. Ham lifts his own brow in response, not backing down. The mountain of a ghoul tilts his head, allows an ever so tiny smirk to prick at his ruined mouth, then shrugs, taking a breath as he straightens and addresses his group, "Very well, we have been asked to vacate the entrance. Would anyone here prefer to go sleep, instead of eating or drinking? If so, speak now, so I may escort you to a room."

His diction is very precise and just a bit off, giving me the mild impression that he's not a native English speaker, though his faint accent clearly smacks of the northeastern Commonwealths. New York, perhaps? Or Jersey. His voice is surprisingly light, for such an imposingly large person, though not so high that it would cause me a snicker or two. It's gruff, even more full of gravel than the ghouls I'm used to—like the man gargles acid and a bag of rocks every morning. There is no silk or velvet here—this is a voice used to long watches and hard-won battles.

A smaller, far more timid voice responds to his call, the plainly dressed, brown haired—what there is of it, anyway—ghoul just behind him raising his hand. "I-I'd like to go to sleep if that's okay. I've got food still left in my bag." He gently lifts the raggedy bag in his other hand, indicating it.

The large ghoul nods at him, accepting the answer, then looks between Ham and I. "Where may we procure a room?"

Butch has long since turned to glare at Ham, which leaves me freer than the bouncer to answer, "I can show you. The hotel's just around the corner. Though..." I frown, remembering something. "Ah, there might not be any rooms free. If there aren't, you can have my room. It's no trouble. I can always find somewhere else to stay the night. It's big enough to fit all of you, if you drag some beds in, or... use bedrolls or sleeping bags or something." I shrug and start to make my way behind them, toward the door, only pausing once I reach it, to see if they've followed.

They have. I catch sight of Butch casually waving at me, just beyond them. "See ya later, General or whatever," he calls back.

I wave back at him with a sheepish smile, then press the doors open wide, leading the two ghouls out. The crispness of the air puts me to mind of their immediate temperature needs, so I try to hurry without losing them or making them think I'm trying to get away or something. "C'mon, it's this way. Let's get you guys somewhere warmer."

"'Warmer'? Shit, you mean you know about that?" asks the surprised smaller ghoul, his voice slightly more confident now that it's just us three.

I glance back at him with a nod. "Yeah. Had to warm my friend up when we got caught in a rainstorm at night a couple weeks back."

The silence that follows has me looking back to try and determine its origin. The two behind me are giving each other a weighted _look_.

I scoff at them both. "Not like _that_. I got him a dry change of clothes and used friction to rub warmth into his arms and torso. Simple physics and first aid—Christ. Not _everything's_ an innuendo, you know." I glare at them both for a moment, though I soften it with a smile before I turn away, continuing to lead them.

My shotgun gently rolls its length along my back, my 10mm shimmying against my thigh with every light step, the well-oiled leather of both holsters barely complaining with a whisper of a creak. The familiar weight, combined with the friendly nods of the Neighborhood Watch as I pass them, lends me a comforting net of safety all its own, the net of Goodneighbor, of home. I absently check my pip-boy screen for the time, which shines lazily back up at me with just a bit before midnight as my answer. Shit. Clair will be asleep, which means Kelly will be manning the desk.

I push through the doors to the hotel, the smarmy night clerk looking up and already shaking his head.

"Oh no, no ya don't. We're full and you know it, General."

I arch a brow when I reach the front desk, cocking a hip ever so gently as I smirk at him. "Is that so? I happen to know Clemence has given up his room and gone to Sanctuary at my request. So, unless someone took that room already, by my count, you've got an extra, Kelly."

He narrows his eyes at me, those same eyes trailing over my two companions, his potential guests. He jerks his chin at them. "They payin', or are you?"

The taller ghoul steps up, a heavily jingling bag in hand.

I can already see Kelly's devious smile curving, the beginnings of his head shaking. Before the big ghoul can plunk his cap bag down, I reach out to stop him, one arm across his path. "I am, Kelly. And really, you should _know better_." I lean in, glaring at him. "This is _Goodneighbor_ , god damn you. Not Diamond fucking City. You _know_ everyone's welcome here and if you need a reminder, I'll be happy to provide it." The last is said through clenched teeth, as I toss down my own cap bag, count out a hundred forty, then slap them into the cap tray. "There. They're paid up for a week, and I even paid you double, so shut your racist trap around them, y'hear?"

He reluctantly hands the key over and nods, though his sneer stays firmly on his face as he replies, "Yeah yeah, fuckin' get them up there, already. One of these days, yer gonna run out of caps, _General_. Good luck greasin' the right palms when that happens." He leans toward me, a smile starting to form on chapped lips. "You might get some luck doin' it on yer _knees_ , though it won't be palms yer greasin' then," he adds, a lascivious smile curling over the sneer.

I grace him with a patently fake smile, making like I'm actually pondering his statement for a few seconds, before I answer, "Nah, I think you'd look _much_ prettier on your knees than I would, Kelly."

I'm already on my way to the back, heading for the stairs, when I hear his sputtered, "Get back here, you fuckin' cun—"

A slight commotion interrupts his outrage; I turn back to see the tall ghoul with his— _huge_ , seriously, I think he had to mod that thing just to _fit_ him properly—shotgun out, the butt of it pulling away from the side of Kelly's now quickly slumping head… followed by the rest of his spineless body. Kelly's out cold, no question. The ghoul holsters his weapon, as if nothing had occurred, then joins me, the smaller one trailing behind like a nervous tic.

I stare at the large ghoul for a few moments, during which he stares right back, almost directly _through_ me, until I finally give him a slight smile. "Well. Thank you. He might be trouble for you later, though. I can talk to his boss tomorrow, smooth things over if you like. I owe you one, now."

He shrugs, seeming bored now. "You paid for the room, I knocked out an asshole. You owe us nothing."

I arch my left brow at him, genuine surprise tugging the same corner of my mouth up. "Is that so? Well, fair's fair, I suppose." I chuckle a bit, shaking my head and waving them on as I turn. "It's a few flights up, but we'll get there, soon enough."

There's enduring quiet as we ascend the stairs, aside from the creaking of leather and bones alike. I wait until we reach the top floor to toss my voice out into the air, stilling the silence swirling around us for a time. "So, what are your names? I only caught Butch's, but I'm sure if they all stayed at the Rail I'll meet the rest properly in a bit."

"Oh, I'm Gob, this here's ah... well, I mean to say, he's Charon." I'd glanced back as the smaller ghoul— _Gob_ , right—had begun to speak, marking his timid indication of the taller one.

I smirk, taking the last few steps to finally halt by the room and turn, holding my hand out low to Gob, first. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Gob."

It's his turn to blink at my outstretched hand a time or two, before he quietly, as if in confidence between us two, murmurs, "Y'sure you wanna..?" he eyes my hand like it's a holy grail or something, an untouchable object.

I tilt my head in confusion, the déjà vu utterly palpable from almost the same situation with Nick, the previous night. _Why do so many people seem to think I'd offer my hand in greeting without a thought to my own preference?_ "Uh, yeah? I wouldn't have offered, otherwise?" I hesitate, letting it show in my expression. "Unless it... bothers you or something?"

He's shaking his head before I even finish my sentence. "No! No, it's just... well, people ain't usually too keen on touchin' a ghoul, seein' as we look like corpses n' all." He scrambles to further elaborate, a wince indicating his opinion on the matter, "Usually if one of you smoothskins touches my hide, it's to _hit_ me, not shake my hand."

I feel a fist of empathetic pain clench and _compress_ around my heart at his admission of past abuse. I'm not completely sure why I feel I can empathize with him, but... it feels almost sickeningly _right_. I'll need to delve deeper into this feeling, later. Preferably once I'm in possession of alcohol again. _Lots_ of it.

Taking a long, slow breath to calm the howl of righteous fury that immediately—and uselessly, impotently—rears its head within my mind and heart in his defense, I patiently explain, voice gentle and kind, "Well, I tell ya what, Gob: they're fucking assholes. I travel and fight alongside ghouls and synths and robots and dogs and super mutants alike. I work with them all. I socialize with them all, to one extent or another. If I had a problem with one of 'em bein what they are, if I didn't trust one of them _just_ _because_ _of what they are_ , I'd _definitely_ be dead by now, and rightly so."

I shake my head a bit and heave a rueful sigh. "We're all just _people_ , Gob. We've had different shit happen to us in life, but we're all still _people_. I don't give a flying crap what you look like, so long as you treat me like a decent person should. That's all there is to it for me, plain and simple."

Slowly, the motion hitching, catching on a snag halfway there, he eventually slides his hand into mine, gripping ever so lightly. His skin is just a touch cooler than my own, texture varied and different, but surprisingly dry and not entirely unpleasant, even where the skin has long since departed him. A bit on the squishy side, I notice, as I smile and return a slightly firmer, but still gentle grip; giving his hand a small shake before politely releasing him. He nods at me, a smile creeping hesitantly onto his face. "Good to meet ya, Miss... uh... General?"

I chuckle and offer him a small smirk. "Shana is fine, Gob."

He nods again, his smile growing. "Then good to meet ya, Miss Shana."

I grin at him, then turn a foot or so to the left, to extend my courtesy to Charon. I have to crane my neck a little to look him in the eye from this close, but I make do. _Oh_ , I note, as I finally manage to properly take in his battered features, _He has red hair. Well, that's an interesting twist_. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Charon."

Careful evaluation follows, then a glance to Gob before he finally deigns to uncross his—seemingly perpetually laced—arms and palm my hand in his large one. His skin leaves a similar—if warmer—impression on me as Gob's had, though the feeling is distinctly less squishy, despite a now vaguely familiar lack of skin here and there. His grip is strong, firm, but not crushing; though I've no doubt he could easily do so if the muscles I can quite literally see in his arms are any indication.

 _What kind of man had he been before his transformation into a ghoul, to still have that kind of muscle tone? How long has he been alive? Maybe he's a fairly new ghoul? But no, the malnutrition in this era's stunted everyone's growth, so he would have to be pre-war like me, to get as tall as he is. Christ, he must've been a damn behemoth before the rads got to him if he's still this built. What's his story?_ I'm quite curious to know, but I get the feeling asking him would yield very little. _Could be wrong, but it certainly seems that way._

I return the grip he exerts evenly, only matching his as he shakes my hand once, twice, then releases. He nods, a small grunt of acknowledgment following, in lieu of any verbal response. I can't quite help the tiny amusement that slips onto my lips, nor the barest hint of an arch in my right brow, at his demeanor. Shrugging, I turn aside and present the room. "Here we are, by the by. I'm just across the hall," I point back at my door, "at the end on the right, if you need me, or if you need more space for people later. Again, I really don't mind sharing, or even giving up the room, if need be."

Gob smiles bashfully, gaze drifting over to my door, then back to me. "Thanks, Miss Shana, though, we wouldn't put ya out of your room. But I'll be sure to let the others know there're places to spread out to if you'd like."

I nod, returning his smile, if a good bit more confidently. "Absolutely, I'd appreciate it, Gob. Though ah, no need to add the 'Miss' honorific, unless you just prefer it."

He ducks his head slightly, the skin on his face darkening. It takes a second for me to realize that he's actually blushing; it's a bit surreal to witness on a ghoul with half his skin missing, honestly. "Sure thing, Miss Shana."

I open the door and take a step back as I smirk at Gob, making way for them. Charon bustles past, checking the room over quickly, before turning and giving a nod to Gob, who meekly steps into the space, clutching his bag to himself gingerly. Charon strides out, closing the door and knocking on it twice. A moment later, a repeat of the knocking sounds, if much softer, followed by the turning of the tumblers on the door's lock. Charon spares a glance for me, then heads for the stairs purposefully.

I follow quietly, lengthening my stride to match his as much as I can—though admittedly, I realize that I have to make my steps swifter after a few seconds of testing. I do manage to keep up with him, though I pause at the front desk to look the bigot Kelly over. He's still out cold, but a quick check of his pulse reveals a strong beat, at the discovery of which I let his wrist drop back to his side, uncaring if it bruises against the floor. Hoping it _does_ , really. I turn to find Charon has actually waited for me, oddly enough. I weigh my head toward the door, then make for it, pondering if John and Nick are worrying after my absence, by now.

Dogmeat rushes in as I sweep the door open, nearly bowling me over in his eagerness to jump up on Charon, who simply snorts at my canine companion, lowering a single hand to scratch just behind the dog's ear as he calms and settles at the ghoul's side, panting happily at me. After a quiet moment of scritches, Charon lifts his attention to me. "You have a loyal companion, here. He did not leave my previous employer's side until she insisted he do so, many times over." His voice softens, when, after a short pause, he continues, "She had no wish for him to see her die."

My eyes widen in surprise at his admission. I lower my gaze to Dogmeat, dipping my head gently, my posture submissive, in hopes that Charon doesn't feel too challenged to answer my question when I softly ask it, "So he was her companion, as you were hers? Or, one of hers?"

I note the stiff nod from the edge of my vision, though I keep my head lowered, in hopes that he elaborates some. Unexpectedly, he delivers. "Yes. Butch was also her companion... and eventually, her husband. She saved the Capital Wastes from itself for several years, then threw herself upon the pyre of the empires she'd brought low, sacrificing herself for the greater good. Or, so most would say. What _I_ can tell you is the truth behind her legend: she died of radiation poisoning that ate her from the inside out and turned her feral. That was what she didn't wish the dog, or anyone else to see. But I saw it. She allowed me to bear witness, on the condition that I end her, when the inevitable occurred."

At some point during his pseudo-confession, I partially abandon my submissive outlook, though my pose still reflects the original intent. Carefully, I risk watching his eyes, his face, as he relays the story to me.

"I carried out her final command." It is all he says in conclusion, his voice warbling just enough on the last vowel to tell me everything I needed to know, even if I hadn't already read it in his eyes.

I look back down to Dogmeat, crouching before my smaller friend and extending a hand to scratch under his chin, letting a moment, two, three tick by; giving Charon time to compose himself. Eventually, I gently offer, "You cared a great deal about her."

I catch the movement a hair below the upper shadow of my sight and look up just as he looks down, meeting my gaze.

"Yes." He does not elaborate, nor does he need to. His eyes do not deviate one iota from mine, as if he's challenging me to deny his right to care about this obviously important figure in his life and no doubt the lives of so many others.

"Good." I give him a smile tempered by understanding. "People like her need people like you."

I break the eye contact and stand, turning and stepping for The Third Rail. A few seconds later, I hear the clicking of Dogmeat's nails on the pavement, the closing of the Rexford's door, the crunch of gravel under a pair of boots weighed down by heavy footfalls.

"Yes. You do," he supplies gruffly, when he catches up to me with ease, shortening his stride to match my pace, this time.

I frown my confusion at him, caught wrong-footed by his assertion. "Uh, what?" Not my most eloquent moment, but there it is.

He half rolls his eyes, then faces ahead, checking our surroundings as he responds, "You heard me."

I quirk a brow at him, giving off a disbelieving huff. "You sure you want to lump me in with the _savior of D.C._? There's probably a fair few people out there who might consider those fightin' words. I'm... not _nearly_ worthy of that kind of prestige."

He shrugs, as if my concerns are minimal, easily brushed aside. "Your attitudes and actions are similar enough to note the parallels. This trip may be of some use beyond honored duty, after all." The last, he seems to remark to himself entirely, almost muttering it.

I shake my head, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling his words leave in my very bones as I tug on the steel door to the old subway station. "If you say so." I toss a nod at Ham as I pass. "Ham."

The bouncer sneers his single-word response, "Vaultie." He reserves his nod for Charon, who declines to return the favor.

I realize one of the dance tunes is playing, by the time we reach the middle landing; I smirk with the thought that John might be up and dancing already, Nick still waiting for my return to his side. At least, I hope that's what they're doing, instead of fretting over how long I've taken.

Turns out, as we birth ourselves from the cavern of the stairs, that I'm half right.

John is indeed dancing, with the light auburn-haired woman I'd quasi-met earlier. They both seem to be enjoying themselves, which tugs a smile onto my lips. Nick is bellied up to the bar, next to a familiarly-styled hairdo. Butch DeLoria sits beneath said hairstyle, naturally. The other, as yet introduced ghoul in their party is seated at one of the tables, dealing a deck of cards before him in an unfamiliar game.

I toss a soft smile at Charon, then head toward my erstwhile chaperon's free side. I note with a smirk that his left hand cradles what I recognize as my drink, which he's apparently kept watch over this whole time. _Such_ a gentleman. I chuckle as I take a seat on the stool next to him, leaning over slightly to murmur, "Why thank you, Detective, for guarding my liquor against rascals and villains alike. Might I have it back now?"

He arches a brow at me, a tiny smirk curving the corner of his mouth. "Why, yes you may." He sets my drink in front of me. "Is there anything else our damsel desires?"

I contain my initial response to a single, sardonic huff of a laugh. _You have no idea, Detective_. " _Always_ , Detective. But that's neither here, nor there." Time for a subject change. "Let me introduce you to someone interesting."

I swivel the chair 'round to catch sight of Charon, still lingering behind Butch and me, leaning against a thick tiled concrete pillar, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room. I wave him over; the gesture more suggestion than demand, though he follows it readily enough, after a glance in Butch's direction.

Nick turns, already eying the big ghoul with evident curiosity in his amber gaze.

Charon looks at me expectantly. "What?"

I indicate Nick with a demure lowering of my own gaze, sliding it to him, then back to Charon. "I wanted to introduce you to one of my companions, if that's acceptable."

He spends a few seconds looking Nick over, a quiet sigh following. His curiosity must outweigh any objections, if his response of, "Fine," is any indication.

I bite down on the smirk that threatens to appear, instead gesturing first to Charon, then to Nick. "Very well then. Charon, meet Detective Nick Valentine, the only good Detective in the Commonwealth, and certainly the only synth Detective. Nick, meet Charon. I'm... not entirely sure _what_ he does, but he's good people."

Nick extends his left hand for Charon to shake, a friendly smile shining up at the ghoul.

Charon eyes me in what looks damningly like naked surprise, or confusion for a moment, before blanking his features and facing Nick. "I am typically employed as a bodyguard or bouncer," he informs us both, belatedly accepting the offered hand for a brief shake.

Before Nick can respond, Butch pipes in, his tone bitterly mocking, "And he even sends his employers into the afterlife, just like the old Greek one!" Butch lifts his glass in a derisive salutation, then downs its contents. " _Great_ guy, that Charon."

I frown at the man and so does Nick, though for entirely different reasons, as becomes apparent when Nick looks back to me for clarification. I offer a quick shake of my head. _'Don't get into it.'_

He tilts his head at me, pinning me with a look. _'I'm asking about this, later.'_

I take a deep breath, plaster on my friendliest smile, look at Butch and inquire, "So, how was your trip up?" I glance at Charon, patting the vacant seat next to me in an invitation, then re-focusing on Butch.

It takes a long moment, during which Butch draws deep from the glass of what must be rum from the bottle next to his resting hand. He empties the cup and pours another, answering me as he does, slurring a bit, "Long, f-filthy, annoying, boring, bl-loody." He huffs. "Tiring."

I push the tip of my tongue along the inside of my cheek in thought, lips pressed primly shut as I ponder his answer. I take my own, much more conservative sip of whiskey, then reply with a nod, "Yeah, well, that seems like the typical day in any average person's life in this century."

He wobbles his head a bit and peers over at me with a confused frown. "'In this-s century'? What, you secretly a ghoul or some shit?" He snorts, going for his next long gulp of rum without so much as a breath of air beforehand.

"...No, I can't claim that kind of longevity, I'm afraid. I was frozen in cryogenic stasis for two-hundred years, give or take a decade, but no, I'm not secretly a ghoul." I steal another sip, finally hearing the squeak in the stool next to me, as Charon claims it, the knowledge calling a Mona Lisa smile to my lips.

Butch _stares_ at me, his glass forgotten for the moment. "No shit?" comes his eloquent query.

I nod, not bothering to look at him. "No shit."

When I do look over, it appears another, more in-depth question is slowly making its way through Butch's mind, when suddenly, John slumps his arms over Nick's shoulders and mine, wedging himself between us and almost shoving us from our stools. "Glad to see ya back, darlin'! How's my newest resident and," he looks to Nick, smirking, "oldest bud?" He grins, squeezing us both and turning fully to me, quietly murmuring, "The new bloods fittin' in alright? Anyone botherin' ya, just say the word."

I shake my head, smiling at him and murmuring back, "They're fine, though Butch," I nod toward the man himself, "might need to be carried to his room in a few minutes if he doesn't slow down." I eye the rum bottle meaningfully, then return my attention to John, raising my volume back to normal, "Anyway, let me introduce you to Charon."

I turn my head and smile at the ghoul on my left, again gesturing between him and one of my friends—my own personal ghoul, this time. "Charon, John Hancock; Mayor of Goodneighbor, my good friend, and frequent companion. John, Charon; bodyguard, occasional bouncer, good people."

John further extends the arm over my shoulder, holding his hand out to Charon. "Good to meet ya. If Shana says you're good people, then you're welcome here, anytime."

Charon eyes the offered hand, sliding a glance to me before he reaches out and takes it, re-focusing on John and nodding gently. "Thank you."

I smirk and turn to indulge myself in another sip of my spirits, silently reveling in the current closeness of the people I've come to care about, not to mention being surrounded by new people, at least some of which I'd like to know better. Despite the earlier events of the day, despite all the crap we've all been through, we're together, here. Safe, warm, in various states of inebriation and at least mildly content, if somewhat sad, in some cases.

Considering this is all occurring in a world that's been blown to shit, where everything, everywhere wants you dead... well, that's pretty damn good, really.

* * *

His knuckles rap sharply against the door, once, pause, twice; the same signal they've used at every inn they've managed to find along the way.

The same signal Lynn had taught him meant _safety_ , to her and Butch both.

Now, it signals Gob that it's safe to unlock the deadbolt and open the door. Charon shifts the weight of Butch's drunkenly passed out body along his shoulder as he waits, the new woman, the General... _Shana_ , as she'd insisted, waiting with him quietly.

He's watched her throughout the night, as she interacted with her fellows, prodding at her intentions with a steady gaze, looking for some hole in her story; anything disingenuous in her treatment of them.

There was _nothing_.

He's even fairly certain she's actually _infatuated_ with the synth, though the reasoning behind her attraction is beyond his ken. Truly, the oddest twist in their tale is the synth's utter obliviousness to her interest. It's not as though she's subtle about it.

A slightly more bedraggled than usual Gob peers out through the gap in the now cracked open door, blinking twice, then stepping back to admit them, swinging the door wide. He merely shakes his head at the lump of Butch over Charon's shoulder, sleepily gesturing to the mattress in the corner before covering a yawn with the same hand. He lights up a bit when he bothers to look beyond Charon and see the woman, his groggy smile slightly silly under the circumstances.

"Oh hey, Miss Shana. Have a good night, then?" He chuckles, indicating Butch with a nod.

Charon turns and carefully deposits Butch on the bed, leaving the can of purified water Shana hands him on the bedstand, though he knows Butch won't drink it, not unless he feels especially horrid. Though he'd sprung for the rum tonight, so he just may.

"Oh, I'd say it was a night worth experiencing. I think Nova and Quinn will be along shortly, though I'm not sure where they'll be crashing."

Charon straightens and faces her, just in time for her to meet his eye with a slightly quirky smirk. "I hear tell that this one," she says, nodding at Charon, "doesn't sleep. _At all_." She darts her view to Gob, likely seeking confirmation.

Gob shrugs. "Never seen him do it if he does, so yeah, I'd guess that's true enough. Say, you wouldn't happen to know where the spare cots are in this joint, would ya?"

She nods, waving Gob on. "Yeah, c'mon, I'll show you."

Charon follows them, checking the hall before closing the door behind him and catching up. She leads them to a fairly large room off to the side with several folded up cots leaning against its back wall; various curtains, spare stools and small tables littering the space as well. He brushes past them and snags two cots, heading back to the room without a word.

By the time he's nearly set up the first one, she arrives with one more, quietly bringing it into the room, Gob trailing behind. They both sit on the floor and get on with the task of setting up the next two cots, idly chatting between them.

He finishes his contribution, then goes to stand watch outside the door as they work, giving his head a moment to clear and concentrate on his thoughts.

The wasteland has always been something of a merchant's scale for him; though usually, the fortune he pays is not equal to the pittance in goods he receives. Lynn had tipped those scales for him, given him an abundance of the goods he'd lacked for most of his life in the ruin of the world. When she'd passed, he truly never thought to even see his scales level out again, but this woman, this Shana...

He slips his fingers into his shirt's pocket, drawing out the folded page held there. Gently, he unfolds it, taking care not to crease it any further than it already is... and reads.

 _In the case of Charon—my ever-faithful ghoul companion, my friend, my protector, my conscience—this is my last will and testament:_

 _First: don't go showin this to anybody. Everyone's got one of these, and nobody's allowed to show each other, just so's there's no stupid jealousy shit over petty crap._  
 _Got it?_  
 _Good._

 _Second: Charon, I'm givin your contract to Butch for now, but I'm leavin him a note just like this one, so he knows he's s'posed to find you someone who's gonna treat you like I did._  
 _I want you to be lookin, too, 'cause we both know Butch probably ain't gonna take my goin' so well._  
 _So keep those eyes of yours sharp, find another good one, alright?_

 _Third: get Gob and Nova the hell out of Megaton._  
 _That town don't deserve a good soul like Gob and Nova needs a fresh start._  
 _I don't care what you have to do; if you have to kill that fuckhead Moriarty to get 'em out of there, pay him off, whatever it takes._  
 _Get 'em out, then go talk to Quinn. He'll be waitin with Butch to guide y'all to the Commonwealth._  
 _Underworld ain't safe no more, I'm sad to say, or I'd just send ya there._  
 _I've got a place for you guys all lined up; there's this spot called Goodneighbor that's s'posed to be a safe haven for freaks like us, so take 'em there, Charon._  
 _Take 'em home._

 _Fourth: I love you, you big, grumpy jerk. Be good to people when you can. Move on with your life and enjoy it, alright? Find your light again._

 _And don't you dare look back._

 _All my love,_

 _Lynn DeLoria_

 _P.S., Fawkes might follow after a while. He ain't decided yet. Said he'd send word if he was comin. You know the drill._

He swallows tightly behind the hint of a smile he allows himself for this, reverently folding the paper and tucking it back into his pocket.

Quiet snickers from inside the room pull at his attention. He turns to peer inside, discovering Gob and Shana playing thumb wars across one of the cots, giggling and goading each other at each win and loss. Finally, Gob wins the last match, which ends with them both trying to silence their sniggering.

She is the first to glance at the doorway and realize they've been caught by him, which sends her into a barely suppressed fit of snorted laughter, leaning on the cot for support, followed immediately after by Gob. Their still joined hands draw his focus as he leans against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, the left corner of his mouth curling upward, all of its own volition.

He thinks Lynn really would've liked this one.

She would've said _this_ was a _good one_.


	16. Chapter 16

Charon watches while she says her goodnight to Gob and even spares a glance for Butch, still utterly passed out in the corner, a seemingly pained smirk curling her lips as she turns to the door. He makes way for her, resuming his watch post outside. She leaves a gentle, warm, lingering hand on his upper arm when she passes, closing the door quietly behind her and surprising him by knocking twice, just as he had earlier. After a few moments, Gob's soft knock responds, the tumblers turning before she makes any move to leave.

"You are a very tactile smoothskin," he observes, his tone neutral.

Shana gasps and snatches her hand back, meeting his eyes in shocked horror. "Shit! I'm sorry, does it bother—I should've asked, shit, I'm so sorry. I—" she half deflates with a sigh, resting the same hand she'd pressed to his arm to her brow in apparent defeat.

He waits, not correcting her, letting her make her own conclusions. It is a cruel test, but he must see the truth of her.

He must be sure.

"I..." she slowly begins, lowering the hand, though she stays slumped in place, the short fringe of her surprisingly clean hair falling around her face. "It's a... I suppose it should be considered a bad habit. I reach out to people a lot. It just..." she looks up at him, features pinched in frustration and pain. "I look around and I see people who are so used to not having a simple thing like basic human comfort, a gentle touch, an encouraging slap on the back, a warm embrace... and it breaks my heart. Maybe I'm just... projecting, or reaching; I probably am." Another sigh, her features slipping into something more like regret. "I'm really sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It wasn't my intention, by a long shot."

He waits, as she waits, for some kind of response from him, a response he declines to give. Slowly, seeming to realize the lingering is fruitless, her jaw clenches, she lightly clears her throat, frowns and turns away, tossing a harried, "Good night, Charon. I'm sorry," over her shoulder. Oddly, she's heading back down the stairs, instead of to her room.

He follows, lengthening his stride until his steps echo only a foot behind her, on her right side.

She stops and looks back at him, searching, confused.

Christ, he can still see a lingering touch of pain in those ridiculously blue eyes.

He decides to end her torture. "It doesn't bother me, smoothskin. Your reaction to _thinking_ it had, however, gave me the last piece of the puzzle, which I was lacking. I will not apologize for the deception; it was necessary to determine the truth."

She frowns at him, less anger than caution, skepticism. "What 'truth' could be worth making a complete stranger think they'd made such a grave misstep?"

Charon sighs, tilting his head back toward the rooms. "Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere we will not be disturbed by every passerby?"

Shana narrows her eyes at him, mistrust tinging the edges of her caution. After a moment of hesitation, she nods. "Alright, if you insist."

She leads the way to the far end of the hall, opening the door and pocketing the key, moving to the far corner and seating herself stiffly. She nods to the chair in the right corner, eying the door all the while.

"Would you rather I closed it or left it open?"

Sharp and cutting, her gaze snaps itself to his, narrowing once again. "Leaving it open would defeat the purpose of coming in here for a conversation, would it not?"

He closes the door, sliding the deadbolt home, then strides over to the chair and sinks into it with a relieved sigh. It's a moment before he begins and he takes the time to fold his hands in his lap, quietly observing what details of her temporary residence he can glean.

There're purified water cans on the stand by the bed, along with a few pre-war snacks and several cans of dog food. The shabby, half broken lamp on the table is the only working light in the room. Its shade is busted on the side facing the wall, cleverly turned so it gives off the most illumination, without blinding the room's occupants. The furniture is positioned so that every chair back is facing a wall; tables and dressers pulled out of the way but still accessible. The single rug has been rolled up and pushed against the back wall, beneath a pair of end tables. He has no doubt there are various types of weapons hidden at strategic points, throughout the room.

All in all, it is a room he would not balk at occupying, himself.

If he ever slept.

He's made these observations in the span of the few seconds spent scanning the room, now turning to give his full attention to her as she sits watching him; two predators squaring off, evaluating each other. All the sensitivity he's noted thus far in her is gone here, whittled down by his deception and cornering to the fine point of a wolf's fang, ready to strike.

Charon smirks at the sight and nods his approval. "The reason we have journeyed from the Capital Wasteland is to fulfill the last wishes of my previous employer. There is only one item on her list left, for me." He takes a deep breath. "I will be speaking to Butch when he wakes, to begin the process of transferring my contract from him to you."

She freezes, her expression one of confusion. He can almost see the gears in her head turning as she tries to figure out what she's missing, here. "Your... what? Contract? What, are you some kind of overly formalized mercenary, or something?"

He nods at her left arm, at the pip-boy clamped around it. "Does that model have automatic language recognition and translation?"

She frowns at him, then down at her machine, lifting it and flicking her view from its screen to him. "I have no idea, never needed to use it, if it does. Why?"

He purses his lips and shakes his head, reaching into the leather pouch at his hip. "Because you will need it, for this." He produces a holotape and holds it up, showing her. "It is not in English, but it does hold the answers you seek."

He watches her as she watches him right back; her gaze testing, searching, his placid and calm, holding the tape out and waiting for her to accept his offer. Inevitably, she stands and takes the few short steps to his outstretched hand, gently taking the tape from his fingers. She flips it over, looking at the casing, the writing on the label rubbed away long ago, the label itself only still hanging around by the miracle that is wonderglue. Her attention flits between the holotape and his eyes for a few seconds until she apparently comes to a decision.

Shana jabs the eject button on her pip-boy, then slides the holotape into the receiver and hits play.

At first, old, familiar Russian plays through the computer's speakers. "Тема Харон-Альфа-Три-Девять, Метаморфозы проекта, отчет: октября... двадцать шестой, две тысячи семьдесят семь."

But then the tape stops, rewinds and begins anew. "Subject Charon-Alpha-Three-Nine, Project Metamorphosis, report: October... twenty-sixth, two thousand seventy-seven."

There's a pause, then finally, the man in the recording sighs. "This fucking project has finally, _finally_ produced the results we were looking for, in the beginning. After eight years of trying to get the mixture right, after six of trying to find appropriate test subjects, after _five fucking years_ of failures and subjects either going insane or killing themselves... or us... finally, there is one, _one_ subject able to accept the conditioning with perfect stability."

The sound of a flip lighter's cap clicking back, the striking of the flint, the hiss and puff of the person lighting a cigarette. The lighter snaps shut. "I've long been out of funding. I don't think the government even considered this place in operation anymore. Or knew it was. I don't know, anymore. The subject, 'Charon', as he likes to call himself, by a shortened version of his code name, is perfect. He responds exactly as he should. The serum and conditioning worked, for all the good it does me, now. I have the perfect, obedient, loyal soldier, completely brainwashed to obey his contract holder."

The man huffs, a pained, garbled laugh that catches on something in his throat. "But what good is that, when the world I know is gone? The bombs fell and we are all that's left. The radiation is cooking us both from the inside. We don't have much longer. Or, at least, I don't. It's strange... maybe it's something the serum gave him, though I don't know what it could be, but... the subject seems oddly unaffected. Oh, he's losing hair and skin just like I am, but his mental faculties appear to be every bit as in order as they were before the bombs hit... whereas mine... well. I am... having trouble trying not to eat my arm. It just looks... like so much juicy meat, and I want it in me..."

A short commotion, a low, feral growl, the source unknown, but assumed as the scientist. "No, no! I will... there is one last thing I must do." The person sighs heavily, a paper rustles in the background.

The tone of his voice changes, as though the man is reading from a script. "This is the contract of Charon, prodigy and only child of Project Metamorphosis. Anyone in possession of this contract is entitled to his complete obedience. He is honor-bound to protect his contract-holder, hereby named his employer, until such time as the employer sells his contract, or dies, through no fault of the subject himself."

The man draws from his cigarette, the rattling exhalation of his smoke quite audible. "This contract is not to be tampered with in any way, lest the contract become null and void. If the contract is damaged in such a manner that it cannot be played back or repaired, through no fault of the employer or subject, the subject may and _must_ re-record his contract in full, as needed."

A paper is set aside or shuffled, before the man continues, "Physical violence upon the subject on the part of the employer invalidates this contract. The subject is allowed to retaliate the employer's physical violence, in whatever extreme it may occur. Retaliation is, however, optional, pending the subject's opinion on the matter, as he does possess some autonomy here and in a very few other areas."

Charon watches her face as the recording continues. Her eyes are wide, rarely blinking, the rest of her expression a blank slate.

"It needs to be made clear that the subject is _not_ a slave, nor should he be treated as such. He is a soldier, an asset, a loyal and unflinching ally, a resource. He is fully trained in battlefield tactics, firearms, power armor, explosives and machines of war in general. He is fully licensed to fly vertibirds and pilot many other craft, whether by air, land, or sea. For a full list, ask the subject himself... oh for... we never updated this?" Inaudible muttering ensues for a long moment.

Belatedly, the voice returns, rushed now, racing to the end. "Right, fine, point is, he's a soldier; you get his services in combat if you have his contract. Don't be an idiot and try to kill him and he won't kill you. It's as simple as that. You want more details, ask him already. I'm fucking hungry now. Goodbye."

It becomes quite evident, by the shredding, ripping sounds of rending flesh that ensues, that the man did not have the presence of mind to turn off the recording, before devouring what was likely his arm. Charon reaches out and presses the stop button on her pip-boy, now resting at her side, arm slack as she stares ahead at the wall. She doesn't react to his action in any way.

He sits and waits for her to come out of her stupor. It's not the first time he's seen this kind of reaction from someone hearing his contract for the first time. He knows it will pass, soon enough.

Sooner than he thought she might, she lifts her arm, fingering the eject button, her face still a blank mask. She gingerly holds the tape in her hand, staring at it now, instead of the wall. A long few minutes pass before she lowers her hand, still gingerly clutching his contract, and looks at him. Her jaw unclenches, then slides once to the left, then the right, then back into its normal position before she finally speaks, "Why would you want to give me... why..." She straightens, takes a deep breath, swallows, releases the air in a slow gust.

She turns fully to him and tries again. "Tell me why you want to be my employee, Charon."

"The last part of my previous employer's will contains a clause which requires me to find a new employer, one who will treat me as she did." He gestures to her. "You are such a person."

She holds the contract out to him. "Why?"

Charon takes his contract, stowing it safely in the pouch before answering, "You have similar personality markers, you treat others the same way, you see the world as she did. I see in your eyes what I saw in hers."

Shana arches a single brow at him. "And that is?"

He takes a few seconds to clasp his hands back together, taking a breath before looking her in the eye. "Compassion. Altruism. Kindness. Safety. Someone who will viciously protect the weak, with every fiber of her being." He shrugs, picking at an edge of the skin on his left hand that itches a bit more than the rest. "I admit, I did not seek out such attributes until I met Lynn. But I would prefer to find them in any future employer, should I be given the option."

She frowns slightly at him, tilting her head. "Lynn? Your previous employer, I assume?"

He nods shortly. "Yes. Lynn DeLoria, Butch's wife. She was a vault-dweller, like you, once. Well, not quite like you, I suppose. She actually lived in her vault, with Butch, before they became adults and escaped that insanity." He shifts a bit, settling better into the chair. "Regardless, you and she are very, very alike."

She chews on her lip, straightening and turning, retrieving her chair to pull it nearby his—back still facing away from the door—before sitting back into it, lacing her fingers thoughtfully across her lap. "Sounds like an interesting story, for another time. How did she get ahold of your contract?"

He leans back in the chair, setting his elbows on the armrests and peaking his folded hands before him. "I was in the employ of one Ahzrukhal, in a bar called The Ninth Circle, in Underworld. Underworld was a ghoul refuge they'd created in the Museum of History. Now defunct, if the rumors coming from the area before we left are accurate. The Brotherhood of Steel is to blame, no doubt of it."

Charon shakes his head, clearing it. "In any case, Ahzrukhal employed me as a bouncer in his establishment. He was an evil shit that didn't deserve the air he breathed. Fortunately, after Lynn purchased my contract from him, I was no longer honor-bound to protect him. So, I killed him, before he could cause any more damage to the world. Then, I left with Lynn and never looked back."

Her brows both lift in surprise. "Lynn didn't have a problem with you killing him?"

Charon shrugs uncaringly. "Not once I explained my motives for doing so."

Shana's features relax, though her eyes narrow slightly. "And is Butch safe, if he hands me your contract?"

He nods gently. "He has given me no orders, during the time he has held my contract. Apparently, Lynn stipulated he could not, in the piece of her will she wrote for him."

She chuckles shortly, glancing off to the side and brushing her palms down her thighs. "So there's no guarantee that something I might say or do one day won't lead to you having a desire to randomly blow my head off." She peers at him with a hard expression. "Sorry, but those aren't odds I much care for. I like to be able to trust the people at my back."

He sighs, thumbing the belt of his shotgun holster. "In the event that you are concerned about stepping over that line in the sand, simply ask. I am obligated by duty to answer honestly."

Her brows arch in the middle, the space between them bunching in worry. "So what, every time I make a decision that could impact your moral code, I'm to run to wherever you are and consult you? Do you realize how little sense that makes?"

He tilts his head at her curiously. "Where would I be, if not at your side, protecting you?"

Shana blinks at him for a few seconds, followed by an incredulous snort that has her slumping into her chair and looking off toward the boarded over window on the back wall. After a time spent pinching her lower lip between thumb and forefinger distractedly, she turns back to him. "If you're meant to be with your contract holder constantly, then why are you in here, instead of out there, standing watch?"

An astute question. "I can hear everything happening in that hall. If the deadbolt for their room unlocks, I will hear it and be ready."

"What's your pay?" She shoots back without delay.

"Whatever my employer wishes it to be. I have gone a century without holding a single cap before. Lynn gave me what was required for room and board; extra when ammo, new armor, or other supplies were needed." He shrugs. "I need little."

A few seconds pass before she comes back with, "Why don't you sleep?"

That one gives him a moment of pause. "...It is a part of my conditioning."

Her voice is gentler when she asks, "Once I have your contract, if I ordered you to sleep, would you?"

Charon frowns. "Sleeping would prevent me from protecting you."

A hint of amusement colors her voice now, though her features lend no credence to the sound. "There would be others keeping watch if I ordered you to sleep. Is this acceptable?"

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair as he ponders the answer. It's not a question he's been asked before—previous employers simply rejoiced in their freedom to sleep the whole night through, or, like Lynn, just shrugged and didn't push the issue. "...It... would depend on how certain you are of the individuals on watch."

"Very certain," she replies immediately.

He huffs, an uneasy twist settling in his gut. "If your safety during my sleep is certain, it may be acceptable. However, it is a pointless exercise. I do not require sleep."

Shana shakes her head. "Doesn't matter whether you think you require it, or not. You're an organic being, not a robot or a synth like Nick. You have to sleep sometime. I'll bet anything you'd feel better after a good night's sleep."

He isn't sure what to say to that. Instead, he changes the subject. "Does this mean you've decided to accept my contract, then?"

She half-barks a single laugh. "Well, aren't we insistent?" She eyes him, the amusement she clearly feels finally declaring itself upon her skin, in the form of the laugh lines around her mouth creasing. "I need to think on it. And probably ask a lot more questions. But... you certainly wouldn't be the first strange case I've picked up, along the way. I just need to determine a few things, first."

"Such as?"

She sighs softly, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her folded leg, her chin on her fist. She stays there for a minute, then straightens and leans back into the chair, her legs following as she hugs them to her torso. "Such as if you pose a threat to my other companions. Such as what level of moral standard I'm being held up to. Such as understanding what kind of angel I'm being compared to, so I know how impossible it'll be to live up to your expectations."

Again, she surprises him. "I pose no threat to your companions, so long as they pose no threat to you. If my goal of protecting you aligns with their own, then there will be no issue. As for the moral standard, there is little to worry about. Lynn was a decent human being; you are a decent human being. Unless you drastically change from what you already are, you have nothing to fear from me, if you were to sell my contract. It is simple."

Shana nibbles on her bottom lip, staring at—or, more accurately, _through_ —his right hand, where it rests on the chair's arm. "Well, there's something you need to know about me, then." She lifts her piercingly blue eyes to rest on his milky, faded ones. "I have amnesia."

Slowly, she tells him her story, what little she remembers of it. She relays to him the life she's carved out for herself and her newfound family—her _pack_ , she calls it, and he likes that more than he thinks he rightly should—conveys how, if she held his contract, he'd be just as much a part of that pack as any of her companions, contract be damned. She gives him the fragments of her past she does know about, informs him of the potential source of information that is the synth, Nick Valentine. She explains to him how what that synth remembers has the potential to completely change her.

"Or, I could stay exactly the same." She shrugs. "I don't— _won't_ know, until he shows me what he remembers." She shakes her head and looks off to the side with a slow sigh.

He takes some time to absorb all she's given him, everything she _has_ to give, on a silver platter. Eventually, he shrugs. "It's entirely possible, _probable_ even, that you will retain your personality. While it is true that life experiences can change people, I would say your current personality is strong enough to survive anything but the worst of traumas. I do not believe you will change overly much. Certainly not as much as you fear."

She offers him a small smile for his efforts. "Thanks for that. We'll see, I guess. I hope you're right, I really do."

He offers a gentle nod in return.

"As do I."


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: I normally don't do content warnings, but this here's a special case._  
 _There is a domestic abuse scene that contains physical, non-sexual violence/abuse._  
 _While this scene is intrinsic to the character, as a part of their history, I understand that it can be problematic to you, the reader._  
 _I will mark the parts where the violence occurs with dashes, at the beginning and conclusion of the violence within said scene, so you can skip it if you must._  
 _I do recommend reading the chapter in full, for the proper experience, however._  
 _Also, the imagery surrounding the dashes is still indicative of the scene. I'm not gonna block out the whole damn chapter, though, so yeah._  
 _End warning._

* * *

The first thing that greets him upon entry into Goodneighbor is a bosom swaddled in a sea of blue with yellow trim. Oh, and the arms attached to their owner, which are currently bear hugging all of the air from his lungs.

"Mac! Holy shit, what are you doin' here? I thought you were gonna stick around Diamond City for a while?"

"Nick radioed Ellie," is the most he can manage without totally running out of air.

"He can do that? Well damn, that's good to know. God, it's good to have you back."

She's still squeezing him too hard to get more than a gasp in. "You too, Bossy, but... can't... breathe!"

Ahh, _there's_ the key. Immediate relief comes, as he finally has room to suck air in and let blood come rushing back up to his head, for what's got to be a spectacular blush, which he can only _hope_ the dirt on his face somewhat covers.

"Shit! Sorry. You good?" All concern, brilliantly blue eyes coming level to his as she ducks down to check on him.

Damn, but he'd forgotten how _tall_ she is. He nods, drawing another harried breath before he speaks, "Yeah, I'm fine, Bossy. Just uh, next time, remember some of us need to breathe?"

She grimaces sheepishly and murmurs, "Sorry," through lightly clenched teeth. Slinging her left arm over his shoulders and leading—dragging, really, but he's not complaining—him through to the main alley, she continues excitedly, "Anyway, why ever you came, or whoever told you, there're new people you've absolutely _got_ to meet. They came all the way from the Capital Wasteland to find a new place to set up shop. I think you'll like 'em." She pauses, frowning slightly, though her radiant smile remains. "Hey," she points her free hand at him, "You're _from_ there, aren't you? Maybe you already _have_ met them! Holy shit, it could be just one big fuckin' reunion!"

Mac arches a slightly worried brow at her, as they pass the pre-war currency exchange protectron's station in the old bank safe store facade in front of the State House balcony. "Boss, you alright? You seem a little... er... manic," he concludes, happy to use the new word he'd learned from an overheard conversation Doc Sun was having with a patient just before he left town.

Bossy stops, a slight wince tugging at her cheek. "I uh... shit, Mac, I don't know. I might get my memories back today and... well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous." She nods at one of the Watchghouls as he passes, doffing his hat as he does. She sighs, shaking her head and licking her lips once. "Nick remembers me, Mac. We're using the memory loungers here in a bit, to see if those memories can't knock loose some of my own. That's the hope, anyway."

Both his eyebrows shoot upwards. "No sh-crap? When did... wait, Nick Valentine _remembers_ you? What, were they makin' synths before the war or somethin'?"

She shakes her head and continues on, finally moving again, heading to the Rexford. On the way, she quietly gives him the quick and dirty explanation of the old synth having pre-war memories, some of which apparently contain her. By the time they reach her floor, he's got pretty much all the details he needs on the subject, to draft up his own conclusions. He arches a brow at the absolutely _massive_ ghoul staring at him as they pass in the hall before they get to her room—something about the ghoulified man striking him as... oddly familiar. He glances back at the ghoul while Bossy unlocks her room, to find him _still_ staring him down. He frowns at the weirdness of it all, but snaps to and follows the boss into her room as she pushes the door open.

"Finally." She flops into her chair unceremoniously, gesturing him to the opposite seat with weariness in her eyes, seemingly deflated and diffused from her earlier excitement.

He thumbs back at the open door, quirking a brow at her in question.

She shakes her head, waving it off.

Mac lifts that brow even higher, then shrugs, sliding into his seat, letting tired bones rest on the meagerly padded chair. "So, who's the Sphinx out there? I thought Clemence cleared out? What big wig took over his room?"

Bossy snorts, giving him that _look_ she so often gives him, the one that says she thinks he's said something very silly. "Sphinx? You really think he resembles an ancient stone lion with a man's head?" She crosses her arms loosely, tilting her head and peering up at the ceiling with a fond, thoughtful smile. "I kind of think of him as an alpha wolf, not a pissy cat, but," she shrugs and turns her gaze to rest on him, "to each, their own."

He frowns, tilting his own head in confusion. "Wasn't the Sphinx supposed to be some kind of guardian or somethin'? Sure looked like he was guardin' somethin' to me."

She chuckles, grinning at him. "So, by necessity, if someone is guarding something, they're a large stone cat-man?" She graces him with an amused, highly incredulous look.

He blushes, takes a breath to respond, lets it out, tries again, "Well no, but... aw, heck, Bossy; I don't know this sh-stuff." He waves her off like a pest. "You're the one who likes all that super ancient pre-war crap anyway."

She snorts, shaking her head at him. "Yes, because those old ruins certainly don't exist anymore, despite having existed for thousands of years before the bombs ever dropped. I'm sure someone dropped a bomb specifically on those ancient monuments, just to piss off one camel in particular."

A snort of suppressed laughter cuts through her levity, the source echoing from somewhere in the hall.

Bossy just grins, suppressing her own laughter, her shoulders silently shaking with it as she bites both her lips together, covering her mouth and clenching her eyes shut in amusement.

Mac looks back and forth, from the door to her, trying to figure out if he's been played in some very well-planned joke, or something equally devious. Now he's _got_ to find out what the fuck a... camel is.

Things calm down after a few moments however, the boss only looking fondly amused for a while after the trembling of her laughter stops. Eventually, she takes a deep breath and peers over at the boarded over window, pressing her thumbnail between her lips and nibbling on it nervously. She stays like this for a long minute, then suddenly stands, swallowing as she gives him a tight smile. "Time to go. Wish me luck, yeah?"

He stands as well, nodding. "Yeah. I'll go with you."

Her features crumple into something like sweetened sorrow, her lips again being held together with pinching teeth, though for entirely different reasons. She nods shallowly, waving him to her side, holding her hand out as she heads to the door.

He goes to her and folds her hand in his, giving and receiving the small tactile comfort, in equal measure. He turns the knob lock and pulls the door closed behind them, then stops abruptly when she does, with her hand on the giant ghoul's folded arm.

He's about to ask her what she's doing when she speaks up, "I'll have Mozzy come by and update you in an hour if we're not out by then." A pause, wherein the ghoul nods, once. "I hope you're right, Charon."

"I am."

She chuckles softly, a brittle smile shining from her face. Patting the ghoul's arm, she turns, tugging Mac along behind her, even as he stares at the ghoul, foggy recognition ringing a tiny bell, somewhere in the back of his noggin. "It's not polite to stare, Mac."

He looks back at her, straightening and following along properly. "Pff, like you didn't stare when you first saw him." He decides to hold back the whole maybe, possibly recognizing the humongous ghoul behind them, for now. He's not entirely sure yet, anyway.

She huffs a laugh, nodding. "I did, indeed. But I have a staring problem and I know damn well it's rude. And I _apologize_ for it when I realize I'm doing it."

He glances back at the hulking ghoul just as they reach the stairs, leaning back toward her to murmur, "What, you expect me to go apologize? He'd _eat_ me."

A soft snort escapes her. "I know he's a tall ghoul, Mac, but he's not that hungry, I promise you. He might _shoot_ you, but I _really_ don't think he'd eat ya."

"I don't wanna get shot, either!" he objects, as they descend the second staircase and head out into the lobby, both tossing a nod at Clair, who grumbles at them in return. Mac slips his hand from Bossy's, stepping ahead to open the door for her instead.

She tosses him a half smile and a 'thanks' as she goes through, immediately heading left, for The Memory Den.

* * *

It's a slightly drizzly day as I tiredly make my way over to... well. Fate, I suppose.

When I manage to pry my eyes from the busted pavement, I catch sight of several people waiting for me.

Nick's just pushed off the wall right outside of The Memory Den, flicking a spent smoke aside as he notes my approach. John's already standing off to the side, chatting with Mozzy, his watchful guardian and my de facto messenger for the day. Irma's standing in front of the doors, her half-smoked cigarette dangling from between her uplifted fingers.

It's her who first greets me. "Oh hello there, sweetheart. Are you ready for your big day, then? Amari's just setting up downstairs, if you want to head straight down, or you could keep us all company for a bit if you need a minute." She looks over my shoulder and smiles. "Hey, Mackie." She winks and waves delicately, then returns her attention to me.

I peek back just in time to catch Mac's blush, which blooms brighter as I mouth, 'Mackie?' to him.

He glares death threats back at me, refusing to answer.

I snicker and turn back to Irma, letting my gaze slide over the males present then nodding and reaching for my smokes. "May as well hammer a nail into the coffin before I go," I answer, with a shrug.

Irma chuckles, Hancock takes a step forward to join me, Mac steals his own nail from my pack, and by the time I finally manage to get my cigarette up to my lips, there're no less than four lighters lit and hovering in front of me, causing me to lurch back a bit in surprise, eyes wide. "Christ! It's a fag, not a bonfire!" I exclaim; though it's a bit muffled around the filter.

Irma eyes my little situation with glittering eyes, smile far too wise. "My my, they seem to have you surrounded, General."

I huff and tilt my head as much as I feel safe doing, without catching my hair on fire. "They do indeed. What would you suggest, then?"

She shrugs, a highly amused smirk curving her lips up. "I couldn't say, General. Any suggestion I could make would leave at least one of the troops demoralized. But I do suggest you choose soon, lest one of them burn themselves in their ardor."

I lift a brow as I quickly glance amongst my choices, promptly choosing Mozzy's lighter out of the blue. I smirk at him after he quickly snaps his lighter shut once my smoke's lit. "Thank you, Mozzy." I turn to the rest, offering a conciliatory smile. "And thank you, gentlemen."

The other three lighters all click closed around me, their owners all wearing fairly neutral expressions, save one. Nick has his eyes narrowed at me, peeping between Mozzy and I with suspicious glances. I chuckle, getting his attention and shaking my head. "Nope-uh. Barkin' up the wrong tree there, Detective."

He gives me one more suspicious look, before letting it fall to neutrality, then reaching for and lighting his own cigarette. "I see."

John looks around at the others, mien confused. "See what? What tree?"

I wave him off. "Nothing to worry about, John. I'll... tell you later, if this whole thing doesn't completely fuck my current memories by some miracle."

"Oh, I doubt that'll happen, dear," Irma cuts in, with a soft smile, "I'm not the expert, but I'm pretty sure it just doesn't work that way."

I nod, conceding her point. "I believe you, I'm just... worried, is all."

Irma takes one last puff of her cigarette, before flinging the spent butt off to the side. "Afraid you'll become a different person if you get your memories back?"

I jerk my attention to her fully, eyes a bit wide, slowly nodding as I swallow nervously. "I... yeah, actually. Definitely one of the main concerns, here."

She gives me a smile full of compassion, reaching out to gently squeeze my arm. "I don't think you have to worry about that much, dear. I think you're more than strong enough to handle whatever happens."

A few quiet murmurs of agreement from the others corroborate her assertion. I feel another soft press of Irma's fingers around my arm before she releases me with a reassuring nod.

I muster a smile for them all. "Thanks. We'll uh... we'll see what happens." I quickly stuff my filter between my lips to shut myself up and draw deep, holding the smoke in my mouth for a moment, then inhaling. I almost, _almost_ cough, but I stubbornly hold just a few seconds longer, before releasing quietly. I avoid looking at them as I finish off my smoke, rolling off the cherry and tossing the filter at the nearby trashcan.

Irma gives me an encouraging smile before she turns, opening and holding the door for me.

I mutter 'thanks' and shove something resembling a smile onto my lips as I pass her, eating up the ground with quick steps toward the back. I want to get this over with, no point waiting any longer.

It's my own past, right? No point being scared of it. I'm alive, aren't I? I mean, whatever happened, I survived.

What's the worst that could happen?

* * *

I pick it up and set it in my case, nodding once at my list, using my pen to mark tiny X's next to the lines he's meant to slap his John Hancock on top of. I spin the paper toward him. "Sign where I've marked."

He complies after a few moments of procrastination, his signature tight, angular, the motions of his hand sharp and jagged. Slides the paper and my pen back to me with his lips pressed into a grim expression. "There you are. Have anything else you want me to sign over? My badge? My soul?" He snorts, tossing his glasses from his face to the desk and collapsing back into the chair, fingers rubbing harshly into his closed eyes. He sighs out a slowly drawn breath, the silver frosting of the hair at his temples moving to accommodate the shifting of the muscle beneath. He's grinding his molars again.

What can I say to that? None of this is fair; I hate seeing him like this, I hate being the one to take this from him, I hate this entire situation. I hate that damned Winters for taking so much from him.

I hate that Jenny's gone. She'd made Nicky _shine_ , made everyone around her happier. She was half the reason he'd taught me anything about guns or keeping myself safe out there. She was half the reason I have this job, even, after everything that happened. She was a guardian angel to us all.

But Winters hadn't cared that he'd killed an angel.

All he'd seen was a means to an end.

I sigh softly as I press the clasps of my case closed, lifting my gaze up to Nicky, still sat across me in a slumped, miserable pile of melancholy. I have to say something, can't just leave him like that. "I... the rings should be delivered today. Want me to swing by later, to give you yours?"

He lifts his gray—gray, _so_ gray; all the clouds left the sky to fill his eyes with their mists—eyes to my blue and I can see how tired he is, bone tired and done with everything and I want so badly to reach out to him but I have no _right_ , it's _not my place,_ so I suck it up and give him my most supportive smile, one he can only return a shadow of, with even his best effort.

"Sure, sure. No, wait, I've got that..." He waves his hand vaguely, memory trying to recall what he's missing, "that appointment at C.I.T. Not a damn clue what a brain scan's gonna do for me, but they claim it'll help." Another heavy sigh. His next smile is a better effort, but it's still forced. "Tomorrow at six? I'm taking the day off, I need some time to think."

I try to nod and agree with the time, but suddenly, my position shifts.

I'm not sitting in his office anymore.

Instead, I'm slumped in what I vaguely recognize as a kitchen, the back of my head throbbing, eyes bleary as I try to look around.

-  
Abruptly, my view slams to the left, pain blossoming on the right of my jaw and the left of my brain. I hear bones crunching, though at first, I can't tell if it's from my vertebrae aligning, or an actual bone snapping apart. Another impact makes its way onto my features, this time onto my cheek, and—ah, yes. There is definitely a breakage this time.

I turn my head to look, though the effort is a gargantuan one as everything feels slow and heavy, but I catch a glimpse of a man and then a fist with several rings on it, just before it impacts the other side of my face.  
-

I can feel the oddly cooling warmth of what could be tears, or blood, or both, as it slowly trickles down my skin. I'm fully expecting another blow, not bothering to try and look at the conductor of my torture this time, feeling the effort to be pointless, until I realize there's no more coming.

Instead, there's a lot of noise; shouting, a scuffle, what sounds like a police radio. I turn, slowly lifting my hazy gaze to witness as a man in a tan trench and fedora covering speckles of silver hair amidst the auburn—the skies giving up their clouds to bring _storms_ into his eyes as he looks on me—restrains and drags away a man with envy and spite in his own, his face splattered with the blood that coats his knuckles.

Letting my view drop to myself, I see that same blood soaking into my cream-colored top. Oh. It's _my_ blood.

I want to look up again, but my head's too heavy, I can't, I—I— _fuck!_ I cough—which turns out to be a _blindingly_ painful idea—around the thick, silken copper in my mouth and a tooth dislodges itself, rolling out of my slackened, busted jaw, down onto my blouse.

A voice that soothes the raging confusion in my mind nears me. "It's alright, Missus Comstock, the ambulance is on its way, just hold on..."

I don't hear any more.

I just... _can't_ hold on any longer.

Darkness envelops me in its warm embrace.

* * *

"I've got to get her out of there, _now_."

"What's goin' on, Doc? Talk to me." John takes a step forward, close to Shana's pod, dark charcoal eyes flitting worriedly over her prone form. This close, he can see the iron grip the woman has on the arms of the lounger, the tension in her arms—something is _extremely_ wrong.

He tosses a look over to Nicky, but it's almost impossible to tell anything from him on a _good_ day in the loungers, anyway.

Doesn't stop him from checking on his oldest friend.

Mac pulls up next to him, arms folded tight across his chest, nibbling on his lower lip as he stares at his 'Bossy'.

Mozzy stays in the background, waiting for orders.

Amari shakes her head as she stares at the screen. "No. I can't let you stay in, Shana." A pause... " _No_! You're going to risk _brain damage_ if you continue like this! Absolutely _not_!" Another pause, bathed in silence... "You can come back when I _clear_ you to. I'm bringing you out _now_."

Amari types furiously into the terminal for a few seconds, then turns to the lounger Shana occupies, lifting the clear shell in preparation. She spares a glance for John and Mac, but quickly focuses on her patient.

Nicky's pod opens, admitting him abruptly to reality with little fanfare. He stands and steps up beside Amari without a word, worried, slightly frantic gaze sweeping over Shana, eyes only for her in this moment.

John watches as the strange web of sensors lifts away from Shana's head and neck, rousing her from the memory simulation. It takes a few seconds for her to wake, but once she does...

"What... why..." She struggles to get to her feet, shaking her head, bracing against the lounger as she stands, then trips over the lip of it. He tries to catch her, but Nick is there first, having been closer.

She lifts her head to look into the face of her rescuer.

A single, clumsy hand makes its way up, pressing one finger to just between Nicky's eyebrows, drifting down over his nose—her eyes following its progress—down to his lips, then chin.

Her voice is a tiny thing, so unlike her, when she lets her hand drop, turning her eyes back up to Nicky's before she speaks.

" _Same_."

She passes out in Nicky's arms.


	18. Chapter 18

The flurry of activity that ensued after she'd passed out on him was nothing short of frenetic; Doc Amari running tests, John and Mac both demanding to know what happened, was she alright, when would she wake up; until Amari was forced to usher them from the room with a forceful shout and a stern glare.

Him, for some reason, she let stay. Odd as it was, that suited him just fine, because he really didn't want to leave.

After all, he's still trying to puzzle out the perplexing reaction Shana'd had to him, once she'd ejected herself from the lounger.

Her touch; lingering, confusing, strangely intimate. The one word she chose to utter: 'same'. Same what? The touch would seem to indicate his face, but there's no way that's true. His eyes are nothing like the original Nick's, not to mention the complete lack of hair, the pasty white skin, the... well...

Truth be told, the actual shape of his synthetic face really isn't too far off from the original, but it's a _far_ cry from something he could call the 'same'. Especially if you factor in the missing panels, the ripped pieces, the barely-there neck, and jawline...

He's a fool's gold copy, at best.

So what, if not the face she had so boldly caressed with that fingertip, did she mean to indicate as the same?

His... personality? That could certainly be claimed as the same, considering it literally _is_ the original Nick's.

His memories, perhaps?

None of it really seems like a good fit.

The only way to find out for sure is to ask her, but she's still out cold. He doesn't want to ask the Doc about her status or recovery time, in case she tosses him out on his ear, too.

Looks like he'll just have to wait.

* * *

Mozzy trudges up the stairs of the Rexford, his right knee complaining as loudly as it ever does when he has to climb all the damn stairs around this town. Finally, he lifts his old bones onto the top landing, eyes already searching for the fucking huge ghoul the General had introduced him to, earlier today.

He doesn't look forward to delivering this message.

It's not the ghoul's size that has him on edge, really, it's his damn skin. Or rather, lack thereof. He'd heard there were some places that got hit worse than others, but to _see_ the evidence of it first-hand... _shit_.

It was bad enough, having gone through the rad burns and the other fucked up changes that being a 'rad freak', as John likes to call it, comes with; but havin' your veins, tendons, muscles, _bones_ exposed like that?

That _can't_ be comfortable.

Hell, even _seein'_ it makes _him_ uncomfortable.

He can't imagine how much pain the brute actually feels on a daily basis.

Shoving his discomfort aside, he trods over to where he spots Charon standing, still by that door. The General had tried to explain Charon's situation, briefly, but either she didn't do a very good job, or it just doesn't make sense.

Not a slave, but obeys like one? Nope, doesn't make any fuckin' sense.

And slavery sure as shit isn't allowed in Goodneighbor.

Not anymore.

He tilts his face up slightly to look the other ghoul in the eye, past the narrow brim of his bowler hat. "General's outta the lounger, but there was some kinda problem. She blacked out right after she got out, she's in recovery at the Den as I speak. Doc ain't lettin' anyone but Nicky in yet, so don't bother. There anything you want to send back to anyone?"

There, he's done what he came to do, even tacked on a polite offer at the end, to boot.

Charon seems to consider him for a few, excruciatingly long seconds, before he responds, "Yes. Ask the synth if she said anything, after coming out of the lounger."

Mozzy scoffs. "Well shit, I can answer that, I was there. She got all feelsy with the Detective's face for a second, then said 'Same'. Then she passed out. Why, that mean somethin' to ya?"

The first hint of anything resembling a smile that he's ever seen on that ghoul's face emerges at his answer. "Yes."

Mozzy frowns at Charon, narrowing his eyes at him. "Okay, lemme rephrase that: does it mean anything to the rest of us, too?"

Charon looks at him impassively. "Yes."

Mozzy blesses him with his most deadpan annoyance. "You really gonna make me spell it out?"

Charon tilts his head to the side, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Are _you_?"

"Yes!" Mozzy blurts, "If you're not gonna tell me. Christ, if you _know_ something and don't share, Hancock's gonna be pissed as _hell_ , and he ain't the only one. You're welcome here; hell, the General herself vouched for ya, but don't go pullin' any bullshit just 'cause you think you got some V.I.P. status or some shit. 'Cause I can tell ya, that's one of the _fastest_ ways to get that fuckin' status removed, with a quickness."

A slight smirk pulls at the butchered corner of the taller ghoul's mouth, like he somehow finds the threat of getting knocked down a rung comical. "It means that she is the same woman she was before she remembered. If you wish to know anything further, talk to Shana."

Mozzy observes with some surprise as Charon simply looks straight ahead at the wall opposite him, and goes unnaturally still. Hardly breathing, or anything. A shudder crawls its way down Mozzy's spine and he turns, accepting his clear dismissal, shaking his head at the whole debacle. He heads down the stairs, mulling over the ghoul's answer as he goes.

What a _strange_ fucker that Charon is, man.

Fuckin' downright unnerving.

* * *

John looks up as Mozzy comes bustling in like he's got some big news or somethin'. He and Mac both jump up and keep their eyes on the ghoul as he approaches.

"Big creepy giant up there says she's fine; her sayin' 'same' was apparently some signal she hasn't changed? Fuck if I know, but the big fucker seemed eerily calmed once he heard about it, like it was a sign he'd been waitin' on or somethin'." Mozzy visibly shudders and sharply shakes his head, looking distinctly disturbed at the whole ordeal.

John sags a bit in relief, reaching out to grip the Watchghoul's shoulder, gratitude bleeding from his every pore. "That's fantastic news, Mozzy, I appreciate it, my man." He tilts his head toward the back stairs of the Den. "Why don't you see if Amari has a status update for us and let them all know what Charon said? I'm sure they could use a little ray of sunshine down there."

Mozzy huffs a sigh. "Right, fine, but my knee's killin' me and I'm out. Any extra on ya?"

His guard's request surprises a short chuckle out of John, but he nods, reaching in for his left breast pocket and fishing out the sealed syringe of med-x. "Here." He holds it out to the ghoul, who takes it, leaving a small cap bag behind. John smiles. "Pleasure doin' business with ya."

Mozzy dials the tiny meter then uncaps and jabs the needle into his thigh, just above the knee. He touches the activator, sighing his relief as the—relatively—small dosage makes its way to where it's most needed. Recapping the needle and sliding it into his own breast pocket, he tips a thankful nod at John, before heading back down the stairs.

When John turns and takes in Mac's now seated, but still tense form, his slight smile lowers into a concerned frown. "Why the long face, MacCready? We just got," he half dances for two steps toward the small man as he says the words, "good news! If your boss thinks she's good, who are we to say she's wrong, huh?"

Mac frowns harder at his words, picking harshly at his fingers as he stares at them like they pissed him off somehow. "That's just it, how the hell are we all just blindly believing this Charon guy? How long has she known him, exactly?"

John's a bit taken aback at that. "Well, I don't know. She introduced him to Nicky and me last night, but she was already saying he was good people. I mean, she's a quick judge of character, but she had to've at least spent a little while with him to get that impression."

Mac snorts, finally looking up from his hands to peer into John's eyes with an incredulous expression. "'A little while'? Listen to yourself. You're saying she's known him what, overnight, and we're just supposed to believe his word on whether or not she's lost her mind? C'mon Hancock, think about that for a second."

So he does. Pops three mentats, sits down next to Mac, dives into his thought tank and _thinks_.

By the time he comes back up for air, he realizes Mac is not wrong.

That's also the moment he hears her first screams from down the stairs.

He's up and bolting down them, Mac hot on his heels, before he realizes he's even given his body the command. His demand is out of his mouth before he crests through the doorway, "What the fuck's goin' on, Doc?! What's wrong with her?" He has to shout it, _loudly_ , to be heard over Shana's agonizing scream.

The sight of her laid out on a bed—with wires tugging from her head and neck that look much like the ones from the loungers, only far more invasive—back bowing and every muscle taut, just before they all release and she comes crashing back down in a quiet, lifeless heap, is one that will haunt his nightmares for years to come.

The deafening silence directly after her collapse isn't much better.

Amari checks her pulse, as the entire room holds their collective breath. She looks up and nods. "She's fine. It was a nightmare. Not the worst reaction to one of its kind I've seen, either." She looks to Nicky when she next speaks, "I highly recommend gently, but firmly restraining her any time this happens. She could easily injure herself and be none the wiser until she woke." Amari looks to Shana's other two companions in the room, nodding to them both. "That goes for you two, as well, if you are in a position to do so."

Amari sighs when they nod dumbly and waves them into the room. "Come in, but don't crowd her. We need to have a talk."

John ticks another two mentats into his mouth, despite the dirty looks from both Doctor and Detective. He waves Mozzy off when he offers to leave, pointing to the wall by the door— _keep watch, don't let anyone in, don't let anyone_ _ **touch**_ _her_ —but he doesn't say it, doesn't need to.

He and Mac drag chairs to sit near her bedside; Nicky already perched on the edge of her bed by her knees, hand gently cradling hers, Amari standing against the wall at the head of the bed, arms crossed and brows knitted together, eyes on her patient.

Slowly, with clear enunciation, she begins, "Mozzy, or this Charon person, was correct, I believe. She is indeed the same person she was. At least, neurologically, she is. All tests came back perfectly clear, her memories are starting to come back, she's beginning to recall her old life. However, I am not entirely certain we did her a favor. Her dreams," she gestures toward Shana's head, then to the terminal the wires that lay nestled in her skin are connected to, "are a complete mess. They likely will be, until her mind finishes sorting her memories."

She sighs, scratching her neck, then rubbing it absently. "Having them come back this quickly is a difficult process. Her mind is straining to keep up with all the data, to sort and store it properly, to remember where it all belongs. You'll have to be careful with her for a while, as it's entirely possible she won't even remember you all the time until everything calms down. She's having to sift through a lifetime of memories, when she's only truly experienced what, two months, in recent memory? It will take time. Patience is key."

"She remembered something bad, didn't she?" comes Mac's surprisingly insightful question.

Amari's, "I'm not at liberty to say," comes just before Nicky's, "Yes, she did."

Amari looks at Nick with a gentle reprimand in her eyes. "Nicholas, is it entirely your story to tell? Should she not tell them herself, in her own time?"

"'S'okay, Doc... Doctor."

Immediately, they all look to the source of the—still disturbingly small—voice that speaks.

Amari is the first to respond, rushing to stand by her patient's shoulder, "Shana, how are you feeling?"

Shana wets her lips and looks up at Amari in a bit of a daze. "Good. Wh-what drugs you got me on, Doc? I feel... mm. _Floaty_." She scrunches her nose up. "Not sure'f I like it or love it." She giggles, actually fucking _giggles_ , he's _never_ heard her do that.

Amari smiles at her, pressing a hand to the woman's shoulder. "It's just a dose of med-x, to calm you while you were sleeping. It should wear off soon."

John screws up his brows at Amari. "Just a _dose_? She sounds like she's on a whole _vial_ , Doc."

Amari lifts her brow at him as she turns. She produces a med-x syringe, showing it to him. Five doses left of six.

He nods, eyes widening slightly. "I stand corrected. Guess her tolerance for med-x is shit. Sorry, Doc."

Again, Shana giggles behind Amari, as the Doctor turns back to her. "Nev-ver had any tolerance for it anyway, s'not surprisin' now."

"Well there's nothing wrong with that, doll," interjects Nicky, "we can't all be as chem-tolerant as John, after all."

"Yes, that's quite true," Amari agrees amicably. She holds up a finger, addressing Shana, "Watch my finger, follow it with your eyes only, don't turn your head." She moves it back and forth across Shana's field of view. "Good. Let me just check your pupil dilation and I'll leave you to visit for a little while." She lifts a small pen light, shining it in Shana's eyes a few times before moving off. She gives them all a stern look. "One at a time and an hour total, no longer. She needs _rest_."

"Sure thing, Doc," Nicky agrees for all of them, though John and Mac nod along, just in case. Amari leaves them to it, keeping a careful eye on things from the terminal.

John stands, nudging Mac's shoulder as he does, tilting his head back toward the door when Mac looks at him. "We should uh... give 'em a few minutes, like the Doc said."

Mac hesitates, looking back at Shana with worry lining his features. His shoulders rise and fall in a sigh before he nods and stands, following John to the door.

* * *

A pleased hum drifts up to his ears from the woman who clasps his hand just as snugly as he does hers. Her fond smile matches the sound, as she grants him her full attention. "Ahh, Nicky; you haven't changed a bit, have you?" She asks this kindly, her voice taking on a susurrus quality; her free hand lifting to his cheek and tracing just over the surface of it, never quite touching, before drawing her limb back to her side. Another soft hum, this one of amusement, before she sighs.

"Think you might've hit your head there, doll. I don't know if you noticed, but I'm not exactly human anymore. Pretty sure that should be somewhere under the word 'change' in the dictionary—as one of the definitions." He huffs a self-deprecating bit of laughter before he falls silent.

She lifts her hand again, movements made clumsy by the med-x, but she gets her point across, laying a finger over his lips in a shushing gesture. "Don't," the 'd' sounds elongated somehow, though she doesn't stutter it, "don't do that. You're as... as human as you wanna be, hear me? You're hu... human to _me_." She moves the finger from his lips, the hand waving about wildly to encompass... the room, or the world; which, is uncertain.

"F-fuck all of 'em if they don't like it, Nicky." That hand, her right hand, slams down onto the mattress; slinging under her and helping her sit up some as she slips her left from his and wraps it around his tie, tugging it and him down as she comes up until— _Christ, is she doing what I think sh—_ warm, soft, slightly wet; a breath, a gentle sigh that sounds like relief; her tongue swipes across his bottom lip and he's _lost, so lost in the sensations he never expected, where did this come from, why now why now_ _ **why**_ _ **now**_ _, damn it?_

But before he can formulate an answer, _any_ answer, the pull of her tugging on his tie and the pressure of her lips suddenly depart. His eyes open in a flash— _when had he closed them? Christ, what has she_ _ **done**_ _to him?—_ to see she's fallen back onto the bed, asleep again. Had she passed out? Had she touched something she wasn't supposed to and electrocuted herself? Had he... _she tastes like mutfruit, coffee, and smoke—wait, how does he know this? Had he... had he kissed her_ _ **back**_ _?! Aw,_ _ **hell**_ _, what's_ _ **wrong**_ _with him?_

He looks over at Amari, jaw slack, eyes wide.

Before he can even pry a single word from his processors, he notices the wry smile the Doctor's currently giving him. "Well, now. I was wondering when that would happen."

He blinks, her words finally loosening his words and letting them flow forth, "You _expected_ that? Since when? _Why_? How? What would possess her to _do_ that? Is it the drugs?"

She chuckles. "Oh, I very much doubt it was the drugs, though that certainly wouldn't have hurt."

He glances back at Shana, scanning over her face worriedly, then turning back to Amari. "Is she alright? Did I—"

"She's _fine_ , Nicholas. Calm yourself. She's just under a lot of mental duress right now and... well, it's quite possible she was simply overloaded by that little show. I'm honestly surprised she went for it in her current state, but... what is the old saying? 'No time like the present'?" She smiles kindly and pats his shoulder as she walks past them. "I'll let the others know she can't take any more visitors for now."

He nods absently, looking back down at the woman sleeping peacefully beside him. And she is peaceful—her features are arranged serenely, not a hint of anxiety must occupy whatever dreamscape she's in, if any. He reaches down with his left hand, gently sweeping aside the few strands of her short hair that had fallen into her face. There's only a moment of consideration before he lets that hand cup her cheek, thumb brushing softly over the soft, supple, peachy apple of it.

He wonders how much she really meant the things she said. How much she really meant that... that _kiss. Holy Christ, she kissed him. Him!_ He can't quite process it all.

If she really meant it... how long had she... why did... shit.

Sliding his touch from her skin, he slowly stands, hoping not to wake her.

When she doesn't stir, he takes a breath he doesn't need, turns, and leaves.

He needs to think.

Alone.


	19. Chapter 19

Four days.

Four fucking days.

That's how long Amari said I stayed asleep after I fell out of the memory lounger.

She'd also mentioned something about having been awake and somewhat lucid right after for a bit while Nicky sat with me, but to be honest, I don't remember any of it.

Though, by the smile she gave me when she told me... I may have been _dreaming_ about it a good bit.

 _Christ,_ did I really _kiss_ him? I hope not.

Not that—fuck. God knows I'd love to be that open normally; to just _kiss_ the people I'm interested in, to show them exactly how I feel without reserve, but... I'm _not_. I'm just not. Not without alcohol, or _really_ good drugs.

Two years of verbal, mental, and physical abuse at the hands of Bartholomew Comstock, my ex-husband, made damn sure of that.

But the fact that Nicky is nowhere to be found only makes it all worse, more confusing. _Why would he just disappear like that? Even if I really did kiss him, wouldn't he want answers? I sure as hell do._

The fact that literally nobody saw him leave, nor can point me toward where he went is even odder. _Is he still in town? Is he just hiding away somewhere, torturing himself for some reason?_

For nearly anyone but he or John, I'd say such a move would be a bit melodramatic, but in their cases, I wouldn't be the _least_ bit surprised to find either of them sulking in some corner, somewhere.

Not that John's been hiding.

No, he's fucking _celebrating_ right now. I'm supposed to be joining him in the State House, but... I'm not really sure I'm up to it, just yet.

Might need some liquid courage, first.

It's early as fuck, but who cares, really? I lift my hand as I sit to hail the dapper 'bot behind the bar. "Heya Charlie. Whiskey, four fingers, hold the water."

"Damn, someone's serious. Why don't you buy a whole bloody bottle, if you're that determined to blow all your gaskets? You uh... you want to talk to Codsworth about it?" He promptly pours my chosen poison the second I hand over the caps for it.

I snort, rolling my head a bit to stretch the massive cricks in my neck from sleeping in one position for so long. "Yeah, sure. I'll buy the rest of the bottle for later. But no, just uh..." I call past him to Codsworth, where he hovers by the stove, cooking up what looks like a mirelurk egg and some toast. "Cods, rustle me up some toast and mutfruit jam, won't you please, dear?" I accept the overfull glass from Charlie and exchange more caps for the bottle. He toddles off once our transaction is complete.

"Of course, mum." Codsworth floats a bit closer, lowering his volume to a more private one. "Are you feeling better? I'd heard you were a bit under the weather for a few days. Is everything... alright?"

I eye him for a moment, considering. "...Do you remember Bart, Cods?"

A gasp filters through his vocal processors. "I... well yes, mum, but you told me never to speak of him again. The things he did... well, I'll just say I'm glad he eventually got what he deserved. In any case, I'm assuming if you're asking that, the... procedure was a success?"

I take a long, slow breath, looking down into my glass. "Maybe. I think so. Hell, I don't know, Cods." I prop my elbows on the bar and rub circles into my sore temples, where I'd apparently nearly ripped out some of the wires Amari had been using to monitor my brain while I was out. The nightmares were rough; I remember that. _Too well_. I'd finally woken up in the middle of one, being held down by John because I'd almost broken my wrist in my thrashing. He'd said I'd been _screaming_. That I did that _often_ , now. _Fucking hell_... "My head hurts almost all the time, but it's... good to start piecing things back together now. I think."

Cods sighs softly, then moves to the stove to tend to what's already cooking, adding my liquor sopping food to the mix. "It will get better, Miss Shana. Just... give it time."

I huff a laugh, tossing a smile at his metal shell. "Time and alcohol. Though, I'm not sure if it's gonna be equal amounts of each, there."

Codsworth keeps one eye stalk trained on me as he tends to his chef duties. "Well do us all a favor mum, and don't pass out before noon, at least. I have absolutely no wish to explain that to your dear Mister Valentine."

I blink, then stare at him, eyes wide. "' _My dear Mister Valentine?'_ Since when have you _ever_ called him that, Codsworth?"

"Oh mum please, don't be so obtuse." He slips my toast onto a chipped plate, alongside a healthy dollop of mutfruit jam on each slice, spread thin, like I prefer it. "It was one thing when you couldn't recall anything beyond the last two months, but now? You're about two centuries too late to pull the wool over my optical sensors, Miss Shana."

" _I don't know what to do, Cods. There's nothing I_ can _do. It's just too soon for him. The rings are just a last-ditch effort to... to..." I, me in my memory's eye, sighs, slumping, defeated._

" _Miss Shana, if your rescuing knight with a shiny badge isn't ready, then I don't know how to advise you." He fidgets almost nervously with the shirt he's ironing for my brother. "Perhaps keep the rings for a bit, give him more time? It has been nearly a year since dear Miss Jenny passed on, but... who can say when he will be finished with his grief and ready to accept life again? You mustn't lose hope, mum."_

 _Past me pinches the pair of golden rings between my fingers, rolling them gently. Lifting each to read the inscription inside reveals the perfectly engraved phrase, 'Never Again', on the inner surface of both rings. The only difference between the two is the thickness, mine being the slightly thinner, more feminine of the two. I slide mine on, holding my hand out to ponder its appeal on my ring finger. "Yes... I likely should wait. I just worry that I'll be saying that for the rest of our lives."_

The clinking of the plate being set in front of me shakes me from my reverie. I look up to Codsworth with something like determination in my eyes. "Thanks. And... you're right. I guess I just... didn't realize I was being that obvious. It's strange... you know, I think I might've kissed him. I don't remember it, but... I just have the strangest feeling I did."

Codsworth rocks back a bit in simulated surprise. "Goodness! Well, I suppose two centuries would be enough time for him to overcome his grief, at least. I doubt he would've objected too strongly, at this point." He hesitates for a long moment before finally prodding, "...Where is the good sir, anyway? I would've thought he'd be accompanying you."

I snort, picking at my toast as I shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine. I haven't seen him, nor has anyone in Goodneighbor, not since I came out of the lounger. He'd have to still be around, but I can't imagine where."

"You truly can't, mum? Have you checked your pockets since you woke?"

I frown, halfway into taking my first bite of breakfast. Chewing quickly and swallowing, I ask, "No, why?"

The 'bot simulates a sigh. "Humor me, mum. I've got a theory."

I narrow my eyes at him, but comply, checking my pockets. A couple of notes, three extra clips for my 10mm, a gaggle of bobby pins, a pristine bottle of wonderglue, and... wait. "The elevator key's missing." I cock my head at him. "You think he snagged it to take up residence in my new apartment? Why?"

He shakes his body like a head. "Not _in_ it, Miss Shana. But it does lend him easy access to a nicely solitary place to be alone and think."

I consider that for a few seconds before the answer dawns on me. "The _roof access?_ Why the hell wouldn't he just use the apartment, if he was gonna go as far as to take the key?"

"No idea, mum. But it seems to be his preference." He divvies the mirelurk egg and toast onto two plates. "I've seen a smoke trail and the tail of his coat over the side of the roof access for... well, since you left the lounger, for all I know. I'd bet every cap you've ever made that he hasn't moved from that spot once."

I hum thoughtfully around my mouthful of toast and mutfruit jam, chewing quickly. Time to scarf this down, get some liquid courage, and go pry a synth from my roof. "Thanks for the info," I manage, after I swallow.

"You're quite welcome, as always, mum." At that, he picks up the plates and floats away, toward a table for two.

I snatch up my bottle, stuffing it into my backpack. Down that last bit of the first toast slice goes; onto the last. My fingers tap out an impatient beat on the bar while I chew as quickly as I can, sipping my drink to ease the fairly dry fare's passage. I jerk my chin at Charlie. "You got any coffee made?"

He turns one eye stalk to me. "You got four caps?"

I scoff at him. "Four?! That's ridiculous for one cup of coffee."

"Yes, and that's the price you pay for a rare commodity." He taps the counter. "Cough it up or let someone else have it; I don't care which, but be snappy about it."

I frown at him but slap the four caps on the counter anyway. "Scalper."

"Pampered Vaultie," he returns, even as he pours my cup.

I blow a raspberry at him.

He 'blows' one right back.

I snicker and take my cup, shaking my head. "Appreciate it, Charlie."

He waves me off with his claw arm and goes back to wiping down glasses.

Inhaling the toast is a much quicker process with coffee. Tastes better, too. By the time I'm finished with everything on my plate and in that cup, I feel sufficiently safeguarded against a potentially queasy stomach to neatly down my whiskey. I set the glass back by Charlie, the plate by Codsworth; then, before I can decide otherwise, I stand and make for the stairs, calling back with a wave, "See you later, gents!"

Their returned farewells are subsequently drowned out by the drumming of my boots on the stairs as I take them as quickly as I'm able to. About halfway up the second set, I feel the tingling burn of the alcohol smack me on the ass. _Ahh, yep, there we go. Liquid courage donned. Let's do this._

I toss a nod to the morning guard, a human I haven't quite learned the name of yet— _Denny? Lenny? Manny? Danny? Shit, I can't remember_ —which he returns quietly.

It's a refreshing change from the sourness of Ham. I've yet to figure out why he took such a shine to hating my guts in the first place, but there it is. There was that time I chewed him out, but that was _after_ he'd already clearly made his decision on his opinion of me. Maybe he really was just looking out for John? Could be I gummed up the works with that little tirade. Oh, well, can't win them all. I'll talk to him about it, someday soon.

I head over to the front of the narrow building between the Rexford and Den, peering up where Cods had indicated—sure enough, there's a thin pillar of smoke being buffeted about, just above the ratty left corner tail of his trench flapping in the wind against the side of the building.

I narrow my eyes, plant my hands on my hips, take a deep breath, and shout directly up at him, "Nicholas Jameson Valentine, you get your tin can ass down here this _instant_ , or so help me, I'm gonna start _climbin'_!"

About halfway through my proclamation, demand, and threat, his upper body appears over the top edge of the wall, eyes wide in surprise that I can see even from here. I offer him a smile in return, though my stance retains its stubbornness. I can see his shoulders lift and fall in a sigh, his head tilts to the side with the eye roll he's too polite to commit to. Finally, he stands and heads for the stairs, which empty out onto my balcony. I lose track of him for a bit, as I round to the elevator door on the right side of the building to meet him. A couple of the Watchmen chuckle at me as I go, apparently amused by the situation.

When the doors slide open, he's braced his left hand against the elevator cabin's wall, his right perched on his hip. I note the one brow he's raised, once he tilts his head up enough for me to see under the brim of his hat. _Fuck, he's still stunning._

I smirk and lift my own eyebrow, brushing past him to occupy the elevator beside him, pressing the button for my floor. I draw a breath as the doors close, sliding my view left to take him in as he straightens, then leans back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes smoldering. My smirk's curl sharpens at the sight. _Well_ then.

"I hear tell I might've kissed you." My voice is a bit huskier than I intended, but _fuck_ it's not like I can help it much at this point.

I register confusion in his features, though he quickly masks it. "You aren't sure?"

I shrug, turning my attention to my uplifted nails; freshly cleaned and buffed, like the rest of me. "I'm _fairly_ sure, I just don't _directly_ remember. Amari's suggestiveness and my own _very_ vivid dreams on the subject seem to point to that conclusion, though. That, and... well. I've wanted to do it for a _very_ long time." I shrug again, turning to mirror his stance on the opposite wall. "If I did it, to begin with."

 _Thank you, liquid courage, for letting me get all that out._

 _Don't fail me now._

He sighs deeply, pushing away from the wall when the doors open, gesturing for me to go through first, like the gentleman he is.

It's a little surreal, the enveloping feeling of _home_ that I experience when I step inside, despite the lack of furniture. I take slow steps into the center of the main room, before turning once I reach it.

He's leaned up against the wall of the smaller room, just inside the entrance; watching me with something between consideration, anger, and reluctance. The dominance of each change so quickly it's impossible to really keep track of. "And, if you _did_ do it, what then?"

I fold my hands behind me, resting them near the base of my spine. A soft smile plays on my lips, but never really stays there. "Then I'd say it's about two centuries overdue, except... back then, I hadn't wanted to push you. I loved Jenny too much to do that to either of you, no matter how I felt."

His silence makes me fill it with the rest of my confession. "You... you were the only thing I remembered, when I first woke up from being frozen, you know? I remembered your voice. Your hands.

"When I first heard it again in that damned Vault, I thought I'd just... _lost_ it. How could that voice _still exist_? Two-hundred years, and somehow, I managed to find my way back to the only thing that kept me sane on the ice. The only thing that felt like _home_. I had to be losing it. But no, there you were, in all your glory." My smile finally breaks free, along with a tear that rolls fatly down my cheek.

"I don't..." a breath that hitches as I frown, I cross my arms as a shiver crawls up my spine, "if what I... dreamed is accurate in any way to what I did, I'm sorry that I didn't give you more of a choice to pull back. I... I don't know why I didn't. That was wrong. But I don't regret kissing you, if I... well, I assume I... right." I clear my throat and shut my trap, seeing as I'm just babbling now.

There's a long pause, before, "What did you dream?"

My eyes are wide when I look at him, a half-disbelieving laugh barely more than whispering from my lungs. "You... are _seriously_ going to make me describe it?"

He shrugs the shoulder he isn't leaning on, expression fading to neutrality. "It's gonna be hard to confirm or deny what you think might've happened, without knowing the details, doll."

I narrow my eyes now. "It's not a _case_ , Nicky. It's just a dream that _might've_ come from a memory. Dreams are fickle recreations of memory, at best; outlandish fabrications, at worst. If none of what I dreamed happened, then I've done nothing but make a fool of myself, here. That's fine, but I have little interest in being patronized further if that be the case."

I press my lips into a thin line, drawing a reedy breath before diving in head-first. "I grabbed your tie, pulled you down by it, then leaned up and kissed you for everything I was worth, for all of about three seconds. Then... I don't know what happened. Maybe I passed out, because it's all a blank after that, aside from a lot of other dreams that are unrelated." I'm hugging myself, blushing, and focusing very intently at some point just beyond my feet on the floor, by the time I finish.

He sighs slowly. "...It was probably the med-x Doc Amari gave you that FUBARed your memory of it. Hell of a thing, that it turned into a dream. But... yeah, that's about how it happened. You also said some things about how human you thought I was, and how everyone else could buzz off, for all you cared."

I snort at that, lifting my gaze to his shoes. "'Buzz off'? Now, does that _really_ sound like me?"

He scoffs lightly. "I'm sure you can interpret what you said, just fine. Did... did you mean what you said, or was that the med-x talkin'?"

I finally get up the nerve to look at him properly, offering a tiny smile. "Depends. Did I say something along the lines of... you're more human than most, and you're human to me, no matter what anyone else thinks?"

He swallows, and I follow the motion with my gaze, flicking it back up to his eyes directly after. His voice is tight, constricted, "Yes."

A short, somewhat hitching nod answers him immediately. "Yeah. I meant it. Still do."

A grimace yanks at his cheeks—a breath gusting out in an uneven, catching, staccato rhythm; likely the closest sound to a sob he's capable of in that body—baring his teeth in a pained expression that quickly turns into a scowl, full of bitter remorse. "I... can't. I'm... I'm sorry, Shana. I just _can't_." He shakes his head sharply, draws something from his pocket and tosses it toward me. It lands at my feet with a few metallic clinks, as he turns and flees to the elevator.

I stand there, feet stuck to the ground by an immovable force of nature that I just can't shake, pained shock blanketing my features as he turns and hits the button, then looks back at me with agonizing sorrow and something like a longing forever denied etched deeply into his face, just before the doors close.

It's a long, long moment before I can rip my gaze from the elevator door, down to the object he'd thrown...

My elevator key.


	20. Chapter 20

I bend down and pick up the little brassy thing, finding it somehow still warmed from his hand. I close my own around it, then look at the elevator, swallowing around the tightness in my throat. I hear the rumbling echo up the shaft of the cabin landing at the bottom and for some reason, it's _that sound_ which dumps a tub of solvent on the wonderglue stuck to my boot's soles. I turn and make a mad dash for the balcony, leaning over the railing to catch sight of where he might go. _Is he just... straight up leaving? Is he abandoning my case? I... no, this... shit. Shit!_

But there's no sign of him. I can clearly see the corner of the building he'd have to round in order to leave the alley the elevator dumps into, but he has yet to emerge. _What gives? Is he waiting? Whatever for? Can't be for me, given what he's just said._

Still nothing. I frown and head back inside, smacking the lift's call button. I step in once it reaches me and I quickly select the ground floor, hands coming together in front of my stomach to pick at each other as I shift my weight from one foot to another in my anxiety.

The trip down seems to take forever, but it does eventually end, the doors sliding open and spilling me out into my little alley. I look around for any sign of him, but no, he's not here. Whether he made good on his escape while I was stuck to the floor, or after he heard the elevator start back up, he's gone now.

And I am left to wonder after the ghost of a man I'm not sure I know anymore.

* * *

The first strains of good old Doris singin' "Someday I'll Find You" filter down to him the moment he steps through the State House's side door.

 _When one is lonely, the days are long_  
 _you seem so near, but never appear_  
 _each night, I sing you a lover's song_  
 _please try to hear, my dear... my dear_

He nods to John's faithful Watchmen on the way up the stairs, left hand trailing up the rounded banister as he goes. He can hear the jet inhaler depress before he crests the stairs and gets the perfect view of John lowering the canister from his mouth with a smugly satisfied smirk. He watches the ghoul deflate slightly as he lets the faint jet mist seep from between his lips, tossing the inhaler onto the table and smiling over at Nick as he enters the room.

 _Someday I'll find you, moonlight behind you_  
 _true to the dream I am dreaming!_  
 _As I draw near you, you'll smile a little smile,_  
 _for a little while, we shall stand, hand in hand!_

"Hello, _Jameson_." He chuckles good-naturedly. "What's the occasion?" John's smirk is utterly insufferable, and Nick just isn't in the mood to put up with him.

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up, Hancock." He shakes his head sharply in his annoyance. "I just came by to say I'm headed out for a while. Not sure when I'll be back. Got a new case that needs solving."

 _I'll leave you never, love you forever,_  
 _all our past sorrow redeeming,_  
 _make it all come true, make me love you too,_  
 _someday I'll find you..._  
 _someday I'll find you again!_

John frowns as the song ends, concern and confusion overcoming everything else. "What about _Shana's_ case? You givin' up on it? I thought you two were..." He gestures vaguely in Nick's direction, not clarifying any more than that.

Nick scowls at him, sucking in a breath before he replies, "I don't know what you mean, John. As for her case, I _said_ I'd be back. I haven't given up on it, I just... need to get out and do something else for a while. I'm gettin' rusty just hangin' around all this time."

John narrows his eyes at him. "I don't buy it, Nicky. What the hell happened, and where the hell have you been, anyway? I've had my people lookin' for you and nobody's seen ya once."

He huffs impatiently. "It really doesn't concern you, John. I only stopped by as a courtesy, not so I could get interrogated. I'll get back when I'm back. Radio Ellie if you need anything from the Agency." He turns and resolutely sets himself for the stairs without another word.

"Hold on just a fuckin' second, Nicky— _Nicky!_ " He hears John's steps chasing after him, turns to see him towering over him at the top of the stairs. "What the fuck, Nick? Exactly how do you expect me to act when my oldest friend comes into my house and tells me some cockamamie bullshit like you just pulled? _Talk_ to me, man. You're worryin' the shit outta me."

The side door opens and closes, neither of them paying it any mind.

"I told you, John, it's a case. I need to get movin'," he insists, foot edging to the next step down.

"Bullshit! If you're not gonna talk about it, at least let me come with you, so you have someone watching your back. I do not want a repeat of fucking 114." John's already taking the first two steps down when a small voice stops them both in their tracks.

"Let him go, John."

Nick turns to stare down at her, where she peers up at them, her expression somber, almost hard.

"What? Why?" comes John's immediate query.

"Just trust me, John. It's better if you don't ask." She's turned to stare down at her hands, where they tightly clamp into the bottom end of the stair railing.

"Better for who, Shana? 'Cause personally, I want to know what the fuck's going on here, and it's abundantly obvious it ain't 'nothing'. So what gives?"

Every ounce of her expression hardens, and Nick is certain he's currently looking into the face her enemies see, just before she ends them. Her voice regains its old boldness, taking on a sharp edge he's only heard in hazy memories of her, from long ago. "'What gives' is that you're being ridiculously _obtuse_ , John. _Let him go_. It's a _private_ matter."

She drops her fierce stare and all her hard edges as she breaks eye contact with John; by the time she finds it with Nick, there's little left but the shadow of pain in her eyes, barely there before she turns away and moves out of both their views.

He looks back up to John, his lips pressed into a thin line.

John can't seem to decide what reaction to have. Anger, indignation, confusion, worry, all warring for real estate on his features. Finally, he settles on subdued, dumbfounded concern. "What... the hell happened, Nicky?"

Nick sighs. "Honestly, I'm not even entirely sure I know, John. But I need... space. Time to figure things out. I can't get that in Goodneighbor right now."

John considers that for a few long seconds, before finally nodding, swallowing once. "Yeah, sure. Alright. You sure I can't send someone with ya to watch your back? Don't feel right, sendin' ya out on your own like this."

Nick offers him a small smile. "I'm sure. But thanks for the thought. Seeya soon, John. Keep this place together 'til I get back, yeah?"

John cocks his head and smiles softly. "Of course, my man. She'll be here when you get back, as ever."

Nick nods and finishes his descent of the stairs. He pauses by the door, sliding his gaze to Shana, where she stands leaning against the wall, quietly watching him. "Be back soon, doll. Don't go hunting after your nephew without me, alright?"

A slight nod is all she offers, in response.

He hesitates because God damn it, there's a whole _world_ of things he wants to say to her— _he can't, he just can't say any of it, not with this..._ _ **thing**_ _haunting him_ —but he just smiles tightly, nods and opens the door, closing it quietly behind him.

He heads straight for the gate without a single look back.

* * *

I hear quiet footfalls down the stairs and look up, meeting John's gaze as he bends down to catch sight of me.

"Hey, darlin'."

I swallow and look down, biting my lip to try and hold back my tears with the pain. "Hey."

He moves down the last few stairs and comes to a stop in front of me, lifting a hand to cup under my cheek, but I flinch— _I fucking_ _ **flinch**_ —and he hesitates, hand hovering mid-air for several seconds before he lets it drop.

I look up to see his shocked, hurt expression, worry suffusing my every bone; I rush to explain, to reassure him, "I'm sorry, that—that _wasn't_ because of you, that—I..." I grimace, my face scrunching up in anguish as I lift the heel of my hand to grind into my brow. " _Shit!_ "I draw a deep, unsteady breath and lower my hand, grasping his with it and trying to tug him up the stairs behind me.

It's not until his immovable form halts my retreat that I turn and take note of his now murderous countenance. His voice is dark and full of restrained fury as he quietly asks, "What did he _do_ , Shana?"

I squeeze his hand and gently place my free one on his shoulder, resting my chin on it. "No, no... I didn't flinch because of anything _he_ did, John. It's okay, I promise. Come with me? Please? I'll—I'll explain it all, alright? Just... come on upstairs."

He seems to calm, at that, nodding slowly. "Alright," he agrees, thickly.

I move for the stairs again, still tugging him gently behind, and this time he follows, to my great relief. I lead him up and shut the doors behind us, then bring him to the couch on the left. I sit down and with one gentle pull, he sinks down beside me. I slide a mentats tin from the table, dig out two, and hand them to him.

One ruined brow tilts upwards but soon relaxes, just before he reaches over to pluck the two tablets from my palm. He pops them in, nodding at me. "Alright, I'm here. You said you'd explain, so get to it."

So I do. I put the mentats tin back on the table and drag out a smoke which he lights, reach for an ashtray which he holds for me, and I explain everything—what happened with Nicky, an abridged version of what I can remember of my past, all of it.

By the time I finish, I've smoked the remainder of my own pack, and I've been bumming from his for an hour, now. Seems it's not quite just a 'socially acceptable activity', anymore. Well, damn. Gotta die somehow, I guess.

"Can I see?" He holds out his hand toward my left, tapping the ring quickly, once, twice, then cupping his hand palm-up.

I gamely offer him the finger since I don't much feel like going through the effort of untangling my right hand from his left, the two of which have remained nearly inseparable for this entire ordeal.

He gently wriggles the gold band off, holding it up and carefully turning it, until he can see the inscription. He looks at the tiny indentations for a long minute, reading the two words over and over, before he finally lets it settle in the palm of his hand, resting his hand on his thigh. "It's a hell of a thing to swallow, darlin'. Hell, I don't know how you do it. I can barely do it, and it's not even my life. How the fuck do you even cope with something like that?"

I snort incredulously as I slide my look to him. "You think I know? I don't have a fuckin' clue what I'm doin'."

He chuckles and releases my hand to finally assume his usual position on the couch; hat off, arm slung over the back behind me. He lets his head roll back, baring his throat as he breathes deeply, sighing it out in a loud, tired groan. "I think," he says, voice strained at first, until he rights himself, peering over at me with a smirk, "we could both use a break."

I laugh a bit, nodding. "Yeah, I think you're right. Sadly, life doesn't give breaks."

He grins at me, his left hand curling over the back of the couch to palm my left shoulder, shaking it teasingly a couple times. "That's why we make our own breaks!" He slings his arm over my head, reaching out with it to the table, snagging his mentats. He settles the tin on his lap, then seems to remember himself and hands my ring back to me.

I accept it and quietly slide it back onto my finger, eyes lingering on it for a moment. I prod at my backpack on the floor by my leg, opening a flap to get at my whiskey bottle and dragging it out onto the table. I peek over at John. "Got glasses?"

He smiles, nodding toward the small table on the other side of the room, which looks to be fully stocked with several decanters, bottles, and glasses of varying types. "I like a woman who brings her own party favors."

I snort at him, a smile slipping onto my lips as I answer, "You like me anyway, John, I don't even have to bring booze. I just wanted to." I shove his knee gently, teasing as I stand and make my way over to the table, plucking two glass tumblers from the available selection.

His smile is soft and fond when I turn to see him watching me. He nods his concession. "The lady speaks the truth. So, what prompted the desire to bring me some good old fire water?"

I shrug, setting the glasses on the table, shoving a tube of ultra-jet over to make way for them. I sit back down, a slight smile playing at my lips as I look over at him. "Maybe I just needed to see you smile, because it makes me happy?"

He practically lights up at my admission, a hint of splotchy color rising to the higher planes of his cheeks, where undamaged blood vessels still cling to existence. " _My smile_ makes you happy?" He chuckles disbelievingly and sits forward to reach for the bottle, shaking his head, mentats tin almost sliding to the floor before he catches it and sets it on the couch between us. He uncaps the whiskey and pours three fingers in each glass, then recaps the bottle, handing me one of the glasses and taking his own.

When he settles back into the couch and looks at me, it's with a fondly amused, mildly uncertain expression. "To ghoulish grins and a kind woman who somehow find happiness in them." He taps his glass to mine, then tucks back about half of his whiskey.

I huff a little laugh and take a sip of my own. "I'm serious, you know. You have a great smile. Can light up a room without even tryin', just because you have a happy moment. It's a hell of a thing to witness."

He seems to contemplate that for a moment, the color rising yet again on his cheeks, more fiercely than before. He takes another, smaller drink, then sets the glass on the table, pulling the mentats back into his lap. He tips the lid open, picking his dose out of the mass of tiny white tablets lining the tin's bottom.

He takes an extra from the bunch and holds it out to me.

I look at it, then him. He shows me his own three, then pops them in his mouth and nods at the one he offers me. I peer back down at it, contemplating his possible reasons for giving me this particular drug. "Why?"

He slowly chews, then swallows his tablets, before answering, "I want us to be on the same page, for once."

That... is a fair answer. And it's only one; realistically, it can't do _too_ much damage. I set my glass next to his, then lean down before I can change my mind and carefully nip the tablet from his fingers. I straighten and slick the mentat back between my molars to begin the process of chewing—as I've seen him do—reclining into the couch's back and settling in a tad nervously for the ride.

I roll my head along the back to turn and meet his gaze, finding it already on me, his eyes watching me with something akin to fond patience. I swallow my little dosage, arching a brow at him, a question.

He arches one right back but says nothing, just watches me.

I take a breath, about to—

But suddenly, the world shifts. No wait—it's all still in the same place, it's really _me_ that's shifted, but it all feels so much _acuter_ than it did moments ago.

He's lowered that brow, a smile sliding onto his lips. " _There_ you are."

 _Ahh! So much silk drawn scratching over shards of glass and concrete gravel, I can_ _ **feel**_ _the snagging pull of each little run in the fabric all along my skin!_ I shudder at the sensation, breath hitching, fingers curling tightly into the couch cushion. I realize my eyes are closed and promptly force them open, not wishing to miss any possible input that might occur next.

"Now _that_ is _interesting_. You didn't tell me you react physically to _sound_." He pauses, tilting his head and letting his eyes drift over me as I continue to react to his voice under the over-stimulation of the drug. He smirks, then leans in, lowering his voice until I have to believe only he and I can hear it. "What do you hear, hmm? What does my voice make you feel?"

I barely choke down the whimper that mightily threatens to escape my throat, swallowing tightly around it and taking a sharp breath to attempt calming things down. I turn my eyes forward and rest my head on the couch's back, allowing my eyes to close now in hopes that it helps some. A soft hum of thought begins my answer, the vibrations it produces in my throat _fascinating_ me with their intensity.

"I feel... what your voice has always sounded like, to me; silk drawn over glass and concrete rubble, still soft to the touch, but no longer smooth. Mmm... too slick for velvet, doesn't drag or comb, not satin, doesn't snag or press; just shifts and sighs and slides through the air like the smoke from your lungs, riding the dust onto my skin."

There's a small pause, before a soft, almost disbelieving, " _That's_ what I sound like, to you? How I... _feel_?"

I nod, not wanting to interrupt any other words he might gift me.

Only two follow.

"Fuck it."

I hear the creak of the couch's springs beneath him and a gentle, warm pressure on the left of my jaw which turns my head toward him, the feeling causing me to open my eyes in surprise, just as the warmth of his lips meet my own.

The shock of his act, coupled with the massive influx of sensation that follows, leads to me gasping, lips slightly parting—eyes blowing wide, then slowly easing closed. He teases my parted lips with his tongue, not delving yet, simply tempting, tasting; almost asking permission, despite the line in the sand he's already clearly crossed.

I shake my head, bracing on the back of the couch as I push him back into it, straddling his lap and pressing my own insistent kiss to his mouth. Mine is not gentle, nor searching, as his was. Mine is searing, destructive; leaving behind nothing but frayed sensory input and shorted out synapses. It only ends after a long moment, when we're both sufficiently lightheaded to grudgingly accept that we might need air more than another moment locked together.

I stay perched on his lap, brow pressed to his as we greedily fill our lungs. It's now I realize his hands are planted firmly on my hips—kneading the flesh there greedily—while mine are anchored at the top of the couch, on either side of his head, effectively trapping him beneath me.

It's also now that I realize the mentat has worn off.

And that I frankly don't give a damn if it has.

My gaze drifts to the top of his head as I lift my own, shifting the majority of what weight I'm putting on my hands to my left one, while I lift my right and gently run it over his scalp.

He lets his head fall back as he relaxes into the touch, watching my face while I continue to stroke his skin gently.

A tiny smile stretches lips plumped by his nibbling teeth when I look down to meet his gaze, letting my hand fall back to the couch again. I nudge his brow with mine, locking eyes with him. "You're watching me."

He smirks. "I do that a lot, darlin'."

I give him a thoughtful hum. "You know, this is... _incredibly_ unfair to you."

He returns his own pensive sound, then leans to the side and up to nip my jawline lightly, almost as a punishment and a tease in one, murmuring his ruined silk directly onto my skin, "Doesn't taste very unfair to me."

I hold back a moan with great difficulty, feigning a disinterested snort and leaning back, settling my hands on his chest so I can look at him properly, with a modicum of distance—distance I must force between us, lest I ruin my chances at a sane, reasonable conversation with him. "I'm sure it doesn't. Yet." I let my gaze fall to somewhere near his right lapel. "But John, what I said before... It's still true." I look back up with an honest, but quiet smile. "I'm not going to try and pretend the attraction and... _interest_ isn't there, but I'm not going to ignore the deathclaw in the room, either."

I lean down and steal his lips for another lingering, gently nipping moment, then slide off his lap and resume my seat on the couch, reaching into his outer coat pocket for his pack of Gray Tortoises.

He again lights the cigarette that I bring to my lips, again insists on holding my ashtray for me; the old habit still going strong, despite the time he's been left hanging in the breeze. I can feel the presence of his gaze on me, weighing, measuring, evaluating.

I smoke half the cigarette before I can think clearly enough to formulate any kind of cohesive thought. "I can't just drop him for this, John. It's... physically impossible for me. And I don't think you'd like the woman I became if I were to force it. No matter what he's..." I gesture vaguely at the outside world, "doing out there, whatever issue he has to work out, I can't just ignore what I feel for him. Even if... even if nothing ever comes of it."

He shrugs lightly, the gesture there and gone again in an instant. "Then don't."

I eye him sharply as I exhale a soft plume of smoke to the side, then stump out the last bit of the cigarette in the ashtray. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"

He sets the ashtray on the table and lets a smile play at appearing on his lips as he relaxes back and replies, "Don't drop him. Don't force it. Don't ignore it. I'm suggesting we all work toward a goal we can reach, that will be to all of our mutual benefits."

I stare at him, as the full extent of what he's suggesting becomes clear to me. "You're saying... _share_? I... no, John. That would never work. I'd get jealous, you'd get jealous, he'd get jealous if he even..." I sigh, leaning forward to bury my face in my hand. "This situation's already complex enough, without adding polyamory to the picture." I right myself and settle back into the couch again, looking over at him. "Add to it that I don't even know how he feels, if he'd ever actually be interested, and this conversation becomes completely hypothetical, anyway."

"If this is hypothetical, then so're your reasons for putting me off," he reminds me, turning in his seat and lifting his hands to gently frame my face, and _this time,_ this time I manage _not_ to flinch. "I dunno about you, but I don't live in a hypothetical world. I live in a real world, shit-filled though it might be. In that real world, there's a ghoul that really likes a woman, and a woman that really likes a ghoul, but she's afraid of herself and pining after someone else at the same time, so she won't take the first step toward her own happiness."

I watch him as he strokes my cheek with his thumb, his eyes tracking over my features slowly, cataloging everything as he goes along as if memorizing it for some reason. "I don't even know what my happiness _is_ anymore, John. So how can I walk toward it, if I don't know which way to go?"

He lowers his hands to my right one, taking it and folding it between his two, looking at me intently. "Do you trust me?"

I frown, a little taken aback and confused. "Of course I do, you have to ask?"

He smiles softly. "Then let me help you find your way."

Looking into his eyes, it's a difficult request to even _consider_ turning down; his eyes, so full to bursting with admiration that it's almost uncomfortable to see, yet I can't bring myself to turn away, discovering myself a glutton for that look. How I've somehow missed the signs that _this_ exists utterly baffles me.

I find myself on the precipice of a choice I'm uncertain how to make. It's a choice I'm not even certain I _can_ make. How does one make a choice between _home_ and _heart_? Are they not one in the same? Shouldn't they be, if they aren't?

Staring into the abyss of his eyes, I find myself believing with everything I can muster that they _should_ indeed be one in the same.

But belief does not shape reality quite so literally as I might wish, and I am not the only part of this equation.

I will need help if this is to become reality.

At this thought, I finally nod my assent. "Alright."

He grins happily, returning the nod. "Alright."

He slowly reaches for me and I go willingly as he draws me against his chest, holding me. I drape my arms about him as comfortably as I can and sigh peacefully upon finding that I rather like it when I nuzzle my brow into the side of his neck.

I smile as I realize _this_ feels a lot like home, too.

* * *

 _A/N: This marks the end of Part One of the 'Howling Echoes' series. If you've enjoyed the story, and wish to continue reading, the next part of the series will be entitled 'Moon Blind', and will be coming out soon! Thanks to everyone who reads/comments. You make my world go 'round._


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